


I'd Promise You a Heart

by emj1s



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Magic, Baker Bucky Barnes, Captain America Steve Rogers, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Familiar Alpine, Gender Non-Conforming Bucky Barnes, M/M, Modern Bucky Barnes, Nonbinary Bucky Barnes, Nonbinary Character, Shrunkyclunks, Supernatural Elements, Tattooed Bucky Barnes, Witch Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:34:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27304933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emj1s/pseuds/emj1s
Summary: “Welcome to Barnes’ Bewitching Bakes. I’m Bucky.” The man takes his hand and gives it a shake, his palm large and warm against his own.“Steve,” he says, and Bucky hums. He looks like a Steve.Steve is plagued by sleepless nights and nightmares of a world long gone. A recommendation from a friend leads him to kitchen witch Bucky's bakery. He soon realizes that maybe it's not the sleeping charms he keeps coming back for.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 84
Kudos: 417





	I'd Promise You a Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so so much to everyone who offered an encouraging word while I worked on this fic, and a HUGE thank you to Ella in particular, who helped me spawn this in the first place and was an amazing beta, and to Jay, who has kept me going through this [with](https://twitter.com/luckycl0ve/status/1307088271156146177) [so](https://twitter.com/luckycl0ve/status/1307465761779339264) [much](https://twitter.com/luckycl0ve/status/1309263703783727105) [absolutely](https://twitter.com/luckycl0ve/status/1312373447163547648) [fantastic](https://twitter.com/luckycl0ve/status/1314996575932997632) [Witchy](https://twitter.com/luckycl0ve/status/1317215642341281792) [Bucky](https://twitter.com/luckycl0ve/status/1318268133183016961) [art.](https://twitter.com/luckycl0ve/status/1320431870757216257) I HEAVILY recommend checking these out so you can get a full picture of how this Bucky looks!!
> 
> A few notes to keep in mind as you read this - in this fic, Bucky is nonbinary and gender non-conforming. He uses he/him pronouns, wears makeup, and wears skirts for most of the fic. Secondly, this is purely just self fulfillment. I wrote this because I couldn’t get the idea out of my head. Much of Bucky’s spellwork and practice is pulled from my own experiences, so do not take this as a how-to or anything like that - it is absolutely not one. There's also a brief mention of Bucky's choice being taken away from him in the past mentioning moments that lead to him losing his arm - it is very brief, and mild in comparison to canon, but still please proceed with caution!
> 
> I've also made a playlist that matches the general feel that I get when I write and think about this Bucky. It can be found on [spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0NKrlHbCPQcxnPIckFCswM) and [youtube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLTt5oXubFGNngqhI_6ubrz0QzSmvGeyPg).

It starts in September.

It's the first day that can be called something other than sweltering, and Bucky takes full advantage. He throws on a floor-length black wrap skirt and a black top that falls off one freckled shoulder, his feet bare, blue polish peeking with each step as the fabric rustles and swirls pleasantly. His shawl is a deep purple, wrapped loosely around his shoulders to keep the chill from his arm. The left one can sense that it's cold, but the sensation doesn't bother it, the temperature reading registering absently.  He slips on a pair of shoes as he pulls his hair back, taming it with a hair tie.

Weekday mornings are touch and go - sometimes he’s swamped, other times there’s not a soul in the shop other than himself and Alpine. Already he’s planning what he’s going to bake, something that will let him keep the ovens rolling most of the day and keep him busy. He opens the apartment door and lets Alpine scamper down the stairs before he follows her into the shop’s kitchen below. 

He comes to a stop on the tiled floor, lifting his left hand and snapping. The radio flicks on. Two hours until the shop opens is plenty of time for his usual morning routine, and as he starts the coffee and plans to update his menu boards, something like contentment curls in his chest. It’s going to be a good day.

\--

Natasha can be damn pushy when she wants to, and that’s how Steve finds himself on a busy Brooklyn street on a Thursday morning. 

He keeps his head down, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket. It’ll be in the seventies later, but it’s early enough now to be chilly, and while Steve doesn’t get cold easily, he still appreciates the comfort and anonymity a bulky jacket can provide.

And if it keeps the slice of cold air off the back of his neck, keeps the memory of ice crawling over his face at bay, then well. That’s a bonus.

He’d met Natasha in the kitchen at two am again, and the look she’d given him had been caring, but exasperated. He knows it’s a problem. Yes, he’s a super soldier, he can do more with less, but he’s still a person - he still needs to sleep. Meeting her for the fourth time that week with bloodshot eyes and shaking hands hadn’t been a good look, and she’d slipped him a shop name, said they could help him.

“He’s a witch,” she’d said bluntly, “and he can work some miracles with a little flour and sugar. He can help.” She’d been insistent, going so far as to text him the address and then also text him a reminder a few hours later, and so he’d been left with little choice.

He’s skeptical, to say the least. But he trusts Natasha, considers her a friend, and so he’d given her a weak smile and promised to stop in at the bakery she’d lovingly bullied him into going to.

At least it’s in Brooklyn, he thinks. Unfamiliar territory, but familiar at the same time. The bones of it are the same, and even though he feels out of place, it still feels like home. He stops on the sidewalk, pulls his phone out to confirm the address, and then frowns at the hanging sign reading  _ Barnes’ Bewitching Bakes _ in pretty, easy to read calligraphy. 

“You better be right, Romanoff,” he grumbles to himself, before he pushes the door open. 

A pleasant ringing announces his presence, and he looks around the shop, trying to make sure his eye isn’t too critical. The place is neat and orderly, but also seems lived in; the tables and chairs are comfortable, if a little small. The display cases are full of a variety of goods, tarts and cookies and pastries, and Steve feels his stomach growl despite himself. But he’s not here for that, he reminds himself. 

A white cat blends in with the room until her head raises lazily, pretty yellow eyes blinking at him before she seems to perk up. She makes a curious sound, standing on the front counter and stretching before padding across it and hopping down just as a warm voice from the back calls  _ “one moment!”  _ He doesn’t mind, not when the cat begins to close the distance between them, tail lifted eagerly in the air. He kneels down to meet her, laughing when her cold little nose bumps his hand.

“Hey, sweetness,” he says to her, and quickly gets distracted by her rolling over to show him her belly, demanding to be pet, and who is Steve to deny her? 

He loses a few minutes to the cat, and when he hears a rumble of a voice say “sorry for the wait,” his head snaps up.

An angel is standing behind the counter.

His hair is long and dark, a streak of grey tucked behind his right ear. There’s white sprinkled here and there, but Steve’s pretty sure that’s flour rather than a sign of age. He looks young in the way Steve looks young - young physically, but an old soul tucked within, a soul that’s seen too much and experienced even more. 

It looks like he's got piercings in every place possible - Steve doesn't know all the names, but he's got two beneath his lower lip on either side, and one through his septum. There's two in his left eyebrow, and too many to count in his ears. They're all black - small unobtrusive studs or thin cuffs. 

His hands are resting on the counter top, and the way he leans forward highlights the musculature and tattoos of his right arm - and does nothing to conceal the intricate metal prosthetic that makes up his left.  His apron is a deep plum purple, grey writing across the chest reading  _ whatever happens, we’re eating it _ with a knife going through the words. The cut of it stands out against his thick chest.

His eyes are blue - no, they’re grey - no - Steve can’t tell, but he knows he’s staring at them. He can’t stop staring, actually, only startled out of it when a solid thump against his hand lets him know that he’s apparently stopped petting the cat. He laughs, a little embarrassed, and buries his hand back in the cat’s fur. And he’s  _ gone _ on this man. In between one heartbeat and the next, he’s head over heels.

\--

The brass shop bell makes a soft jingle for the first time that day, and Bucky calls “one moment!” from the kitchen. He can hear Alpine greeting the newcomer, a soft  _ mrrp! _ sounding as tiny paws pad across the countertop and make a quiet thump jumping to the ground. It’s strange; she doesn’t usually take to strangers, and he isn’t expecting any familiar faces in the bakery today. That doesn’t mean someone hasn’t stopped by, but something tells him that isn’t the case. 

He’s proven right when he hears a low, warm rumble of a laugh he doesn’t recognize, but the smooth voice that follows is definitely someone he’d like to get to know.

“Hey, sweetness,” someone says, affectionate and fond, and a loud, pleased purr begins to start up. Bucky picks up a dish towel and wipes the flour from his hands. He’s long since ditched his shawl, and he’s sure the heat from the kitchen has made his eyeliner smear a little, but he pays it little mind as he exits the kitchen to appear behind the counter. 

“Sorry for the wait,” he says, then comes up short.

A mountain is kneeling on his shop floor.

He’s broad, big shoulders and thick arms and large hands, and Bucky’s eyes trace the lines of the muscle down, finding fingers gently buried in Alpine’s white fur. One hand is beneath her chin, scratching gently, and her eyes are closed in contentment. His hair is blond, flopping gently over his forehead, and his eyes are that too-blue of clear summer days when they look up and meet Bucky’s. 

He’s handsome. He’s muscular. He likes cats - or at least he likes Bucky’s cat.

He’s so full of magic Bucky feels like he’s choking on it.

“It’s alright,” the man says, laughing when Alpine bumps her face back into his hand bossily. “Your employee here kept me plenty occupied.” Bucky can’t help but laugh, the sound slightly muted.

“You hear that, Alpine? Guess that means you’ve earned your spot as employee of the month again. Good girl,” he muses, earning himself another laugh from the man on the shop floor. 

He stands finally, brushing his knees off - Bucky should really sweep the shop floor more often, but too late now - and comes up to the counter, a small, sheepish smile on his lips.

The closer he gets, the more Bucky can feel the magic on him - but it’s not  _ on _ him, per se. It’s in him. It’s  _ him. _ Bucky almost rocks back with it. Luckily he’s had a lot of practice in reining in his reactions in his life, so he just smiles - and truthfully, smiling at a handsome stranger is not the hardest thing in the world.

“Anything I can help you with?” Bucky asks, and the man looks embarrassed, suddenly. His eyes drop to the counter, hands resting on the wood, fingers tapping absently, and Bucky tries to not dread whatever this man might be asking for. He’s got horror stories of the kinds of things people are embarrassed to ask about, and he doesn’t know if he can take this gorgeous man asking for the magical equivalent of Viagra. 

“A friend recommended your shop - she said that you might be able to help me with, uh. Nightmares?” the man says, and Bucky immediately feels like an asshole. 

He knows what it’s like when your own mind won’t let you sleep, and while the man looks fine appearance-wise, now that he’s looking for it Bucky can spot the tell-tale signs of exhaustion on him. He’s tense, shoulders tight and knotted, and there’s a look in his eye that says even while he’s standing here speaking with Bucky, part of him isn’t really present. No, part of him is still trapped right where his nightmares are stemming from, keeping him prisoner in his own head. 

Bucky narrows his eyes at him. It’ll take something strong for this one.

“Eat or drink?” he asks, and gets an owlish blink in reply. 

“...What?” blondie asks, looking even more lost.

“Your friend didn’t explain what I do here, did she?” Bucky asks, giving the stranger a little smile. He gets an apologetic shake of the head in reply, and he sighs. “Okay. Let’s start this over.” He dusts his hands off on his apron, then extends the right. “Welcome to Barnes’ Bewitching Bakes. I’m Bucky.” The man takes his hand and gives it a shake, his palm large and warm against his own.

“Steve,” he says, and Bucky hums. He looks like a Steve.

“Hi, Steve. So this place is a pretty normal bakery - except for the charmed stuff. I can make custom orders if you’ve got a real serious issue, or if you want something more personalized, but for common issues - say, nightmares--” he smiles, “ - I’ve got some goods pre-made. So. Do you want a sleeping draught tea, or a nightmare-repelling sweet bread?” 

Steve’s looking at him with an air of skepticism, and Bucky does his best to not feel offended. He knows some magic users sell products that are less than effective and that he’s basically offering up some kind of Alice in Wonderland-type fix-all baked good, but Bucky’s never had a customer who actually needed his spells come back to complain that they hadn’t worked. After a few silent moments, Steve speaks again.

“What if I need both?” he asks, and Bucky’s eyebrows raise.

“...That’s a lot of magic,” he says slowly. As if in reminder, though, he gets another wave off of Steve of that mysterious force that makes him up, and he acquiesces. “But it’s not a bad idea if you’re having problems falling asleep  _ and _ having nightmares. Is that the case?” Somehow he already knows it is, and Steve’s small nod is more confirmation than he needs. 

“I can’t tell which is...the bigger issue. If I’m not falling asleep because I don’t want the nightmares, or if I’m having the nightmares because I get so little sleep,” Steve says quietly, and his handsome features crease inwards, uncomfortable. Bucky just nods and doesn’t press. It’s never his business why his customers need his help; it’s only his business that they  _ do _ need it. He gestures to a table in the corner. 

“Have a seat. I’ll get this ready for you.” He watches as Steve makes his way back to the small two-seater, and Alpine immediately follows, jumping up and making a home in his lap. Bucky resolutely ignores the way his heart skips a beat at the sight and goes to make Steve’s order.

The tea is quick work - he keeps this mix prepared. He crouches behind the counter to grab the large jar full of the leaves, hefting it onto the counter and grabbing the box of empty tea bags. If Steve had come later in the day, he'd just make him a cup now - it takes a while to kick in. But nine am is a little early to drink a spell that will knock Steve out for at least eight hours, and so Bucky just fills a few tea bags, focusing his thoughts into pushing a calming energy into the leaves. Intent is everything; the last thing he wants is his own thirsting attitude for the hot blond man asking for help to be infused in his sleeping aid. He seals the bags, then holds them aloft by the strings, letting them spin three times clockwise before setting them back down and turning to the display case.

The bread takes a little more time. He’d followed instinct when he’d baked this batch, listened to the voice in his head that told him to make two nightmare loaves. He privately thanks it now and picks them both up. They’re small, about the size of his hand, and potent. Usually one loaf will last a customer a week - a slice before bed is all they’ll need. With the strength pouring from Steve, though, something tells him he’ll need a little more. Again, he narrows his mind down to his task, setting the breads on the counter. The tea had been fine on its own, the bag packed a little fuller than he usually would, maybe, but the bread will need a little more help. He opens a drawer and pulls out a razor blade, usually used to score his sourdough, and takes it to the soft surface of the first mini loaf, using a careful touch to cut a sigil into it. He makes his lines exact, taking his time, and he can feel curious eyes on him as he works. He doesn’t look up, and when he’s finished, he straightens, then grabs a shaker of cinnamon.

“You’re not allergic to anything, are you?” Bucky asks, casting an absent glance in Steve’s direction.

“Not anymore,” he says with a shake of his head, and Bucky pauses. An odd way to say no, for sure, but Bucky merely hums in acknowledgement before turning the shaker over and dusting it over the loaf. It’ll add a boost of protection for Steve, and something tells Bucky he can use all of that he can get. He adds another shake for good measure, then repeats it all on the second loaf.

He wraps them individually with care, folding the parchment paper around them, then waves Steve over. 

Steve carries Alpine with him, letting her daintily leap from his arms to patter into the kitchen. Bucky tells himself he is not endeared by it. He’s a terrible liar. 

“So this,” he says, picking up the tea bags and sliding them into a wax paper bag, “is your tea. Obviously. You know what tea is. You’re going to want to drink this about two hours before you go to bed. Do you own a kettle?” he asks, giving Steve a shrewd look. He gets an eager nod in return. “Good. Boil water in the kettle. Put the tea bag in a mug and then pour the water over it. It should steep for about…” He does some quick mental math. “Fifteen minutes.” It’s way longer than he would usually tell someone to steep it for, but in Steve’s case, it needs to be extra strong. “Don’t touch it while it steeps. Once it’s done just toss the bag. Add some honey, too.”   
“What’s the honey do?” Steve asks curiously, looking more trusting than he had before Bucky had prepared the order.

“Sweetens it,” Bucky answers simply, giving a little shrug and smiling at the look Steve gives him. “I mean it. The honey doesn’t add anything - just makes it taste better, if you ask me. Now the bread,” he continues, “eat half a loaf before you go to bed. Right before - eat then brush your teeth and lay down. This one works best if it goes to use soon after you eat it.” He grabs a paper bag with the store’s logo printed on it and shakes it open, setting the breads inside and then placing the tea on top. “You get all that?” he asks Steve, sealing the bag with a pentacle sticker and using the handles to hold it out to Steve.

“Drink the tea two hours before bed, steep for fifteen minutes, don’t touch it, add honey,” Steve shoots back, taking the bag. “Eat half of a bread, then go to bed. Enjoy a full night’s sleep.” Steve smiles, and Bucky returns the look. 

“I’ve given you four days’ worth in there,” he tells him. “If the first day is a wash, call the store - my number’s on the bag. If it works, come back in four days and let me know.” 

"Will do," Steve agrees with a grin, and the expression is infectious. Steve pulls out his wallet and Bucky almost refuses to let him pay, but his sister's bossy voice telling him he isn't running a charity rings in his ears, so he lets the guy pay, ringing him up quickly. 

Their fingers brush as Bucky hands him his change, and that magic sparks again. He wonders if Steve can feel it. 

"I'll let you know how it goes," Steve reaffirms as their eyes meet again, and Bucky nods. 

"Blessed be," he murmurs, and then Steve is leaving, the shop bell's merry jingle sounding once more. 

_ "Mrow?"  _ Alpine says, brushing against Bucky's ankle, and he huffs, looking down at her. Her yellow eyes are glowing knowingly at him, and he glares.

"...Shut up," he grumbles, and disappears back into the kitchen to finish his tarts.

\--

When Steve wakes in the morning, the sun is peeking through the blinds. He blinks, disoriented, and looks at the clock on his nightstand. 

8:13. 

He slept ten hours.

"Holy shit," he croaks out. His body is stiff, the kind of stiffness that comes from not moving for several hours, and he realizes that he hasn't moved an inch from where'd he'd been when he laid down. There's no shiver going down his spine in the memory of arctic ice, no nasally voice from a red mouth echoing in his ears. 

He didn't have a nightmare. 

For the first night in he doesn't know how long, he  _ slept.  _

Steve could cry. He thinks he might be already, and he sniffles, shoving the heels of his hands into his eyes as relief crashes over him. The breath he takes is shuddery, and his hands are shaking hard. 

He didn’t know it would feel like this. He didn’t know it would be this much of a relief. Ever since he woke up in this century, he’s only slept a few hours at a time - and before that, in the war, he slept wherever his head landed whenever he could. Even before that, in Brooklyn, restful sleep had been hard to come by, as sick as he was, the tenement he lived in lacking heat or proper insulation.

He tries to think of the last time he slept like he did last night. The only moments that come to mind are medically induced after a reckless mission. Before that, with his mother. 

His hands curl into fists in the sheets as he shakes, overwhelmed. He wants to call Natasha, thank her for the recommendation, but she's been off grid for a few weeks now, deeply undercover on the other side of the world. He almost thinks of calling the store - calling Bucky, with his pretty eyes and his kind smile, to tell him it worked, to thank him - but decides against it. He’ll be back in a few days, after all, once his supply runs out. Besides, in the state he's in right now, he'd probably be a mess. He doesn't want to embarrass himself in front of the pretty shop owner any more than he has to.

He takes a while to rein himself back in, and when he finally drags his stiff as a board body from the sheets and goes to shower, he's smiling.

\--

Bucky hates to say it, but by the time four days have passed, he's almost forgotten about Steve. It's a busy week, and custom orders have kept him preoccupied. Still, on the third day something tells him to bake a few more loaves of nightmare bread, and he listens. 

He knows why as soon as the shop bell jingles that afternoon. 

He's with another customer, and he calls "be right with you!" over his shoulder before finishing the order for a pumpkin spice latte. There's so many spices in these things that even one from Starbucks can practically be a potion, but the extra cloud of purple haze that surrounds the cup as he hands it over shows that there's more to his than most. The girl swipes her card and winks at him with a red eye, and Bucky turns his smile onto the man stepping shyly up to the counter.

"Hi," Steve says, rubbing the back of his neck, and Bucky grins. 

"You're back," he observes, crossing his arms over his chest beneath the slogan on his apron - this one says  _ be nice to me or I'll poison your food _ , and he knows some customers think he's only half joking. He's more than okay with that.

“I’m back,” Steve confirms. 

“Does this mean it worked?” Bucky asks, and the flicker of emotion that crosses Steve’s face nearly takes him out. There’s relief and gratitude and hope, and it’s almost overwhelming to see it aimed at him. This isn’t the first time he’s helped someone with a problem like Steve’s. It won’t be the last. But every time they come back saying it worked, looking at him like that...It’s a lot to take in. 

He doesn’t have the time to appreciate it like he wants, though. In just the few seconds since he’s seen Steve, more customers have lined up behind the blond, and Bucky glances their way before giving Steve an apologetic smile. 

“I made some extra breads this time - I can get you a week’s worth?” he offers, and Steve is immediately nodding.

“Yeah - absolutely. Please,” he agrees, then glances at the line behind him. He has every right to be served and have the rest of them waiting on him while Bucky painstakingly cuts sigils into bread for him, but something about him tells Bucky that he’s not the type of guy to make anyone else wait. He’s proven right. “But...get through this line, first?” he offers. And when Bucky squints at him a little closer, Steve looks like he’s growing uncomfortable the more people fill the shop.

His hands have snuck their way into his pockets, and those broad shoulders are nearly up to his ears, eyes downcast. The person behind him is on their phone, but they take a small step closer absently, and Steve hunches inward on himself. 

It has Bucky’s protective nature flaring up something fierce, and before he knows it he’s gesturing with his metal hand, waving Steve over.

“There’s not a lot of table space today,” he says. It’s a lie. The table Steve had sat at last time is wide open. “Why don’t you come wait in the kitchen - if you’ve got the time?” Steve looks at him, surprised, and Bucky has just long enough to realize how weird an offer he’s making. 

Steve doesn’t know him. They met once four days ago, and now Bucky is inviting him to hide in his shop’s kitchen to avoid an anxiety attack? An anxiety attack that the guy may not even be having, truthfully, maybe he’s just awkward when asking for help, Bucky doesn’t really know--

“I’ve got the time,” Steve agrees quietly, turning a relieved smile onto Bucky, and Bucky’s doubts disappear in an instant. He smiles back at him. 

“Last I saw, Alpine was back there too. Go keep my girl company, yeah?” he tells him. Steve nods and sneaks his way behind the counter, disappearing through the swinging door. Bucky watches after him for a few seconds, just long enough to hear the excited  **_meow!!!_ ** Alpine gives at the sight of Steve, and then turns back to the line.

He works through customers quickly. Usually he likes to be hands on with what he makes, likes to do the mixing and the pouring and the checking out himself, but with Steve waiting in his kitchen, he wants things to go a little quicker. He flicks his fingers to get the coffee to pour and waves his hand to open the display case, allowing cookies and scones to float into waiting hands. He does it all with an indulgent smile, enjoying the delighted looks on the younger customer’s faces. It also means his tip jar is a little fuller than normal, which is nothing to complain about. Purple wisps follow around him as he works, and when the last customer of the rush leaves the shop and the man lingering with his book in the corner disappears, it’s with one more wave of a hand that he locks the shop door and flips the sign on the door, displaying  _ The Witch is OUT. _

He takes a moment, leaning against the counter and sighing, shoulders dropping. He likes to be hands on because using his magic for simple, physical things is convenient, but it’s way too easy to do it too much and end up drained and tired. He rests his hands on the countertop, head hanging between his shoulders, and feels a twinge go up his left arm. “Dammit,” he sighs, and he hears a soft meow from the back. 

Right. Steve. Alpine. He straightens back up and opens the display case, grabbing the breads Steve will need and then shouldering his way into the kitchen. He can’t help but smile at the sight that greets him.

Steve is leaning against the counter in the middle of the room, Alpine cuddled in his arms, getting white fur all over his tight t-shirt. Bucky sets the breads down nearby, then turns in time to watch Alpine blink her big yellow eyes open and then narrow them at him, like she knows what he’s just done and is judging him for it. He ignores her, choosing instead to smile at Steve.

“Sorry for the wait,” he says quietly, and Steve waves him off. 

“Please, don’t be. Thanks for letting me hide out in here.” The smile he gives him is self-deprecating, and Bucky doesn’t like it. He quickly shakes his head.

“Don’t worry, my motivations were entirely selfish. Now I can force you to keep me company,” he says, giving Steve a wink. Steve laughs in reply, then pauses, a small furrow forming between his brows. Bucky’s own smile falters. “...Everything okay?” he asks softly.

“Yeah! Yeah, it’s just - your eyes,” Steve says, and Bucky blinks in confusion, then glances at a pot hanging from the rack above them. The reflection is comically warped, but he can see what Steve means, and he sighs softly. 

His irises have gone purple. 

He overdid it more than he thought, and he grimaces a little. 

“Yeah,” he says lamely. “Uh - that can happen sometimes.” He’s being vague as hell, and he knows it. The eyes can be unnerving, and he avoids meeting Steve’s gaze. “If I’ve done a lot of magic, or too much.” 

“Are you okay?” Comes Steve’s immediate reply, and Bucky forgets all about his decision to not look at Steve; he looks up in surprise. 

Steve doesn’t look put off; he looks worried. It’s sweet, and Bucky can’t help the small smile he gives him.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I’m okay. I can still make your stuff, even, I’ll just need to take a lunch after - get some strength back up--”

“Take one now,” Steve interrupts, then seems to realize he might be being pushy. He looks down at Alpine in his arms, and a rush of pink covers his cheeks. It’s adorable. “I mean...I can wait. It’s not like I need this stuff this second, you know?” Bucky bites his lips, hesitating for a moment. 

“Have lunch with me,” he says impulsively, but the light in Steve’s eyes lets him know it was the right thing to say.

“I don’t want to impose…” Steve begins regardless, and Bucky rolls his eyes at him. 

“Steve, you’re standing in my kitchen. I have an innate need to feed you this second. Honestly, you’d be doing me a favor; I can’t let someone in my kitchen starve.”

“If you’re sure--”

“Steve,” Bucky says, nearly sounding exasperated as he pulls his apron off to hang up on the hook near the door, “let me feed you leftover breakfast bowls from this morning, or I’m not making your tea.”

Steve snorts at him, and Bucky grins. Yes, he’s lying. Yes, Steve knows it. Yes, it’s endearing as all hell. Steve raises one hand in surrender, and Alpine lightly leaps from his other arm, landing on the counter between them. She winds her way across the smooth countertop and jumps lightly onto Bucky, perching on his shoulder.

Bucky makes sure she’s settled before moving towards the industrial fridge against the wall. He usually shoves his leftovers onto Becca at the end of the day, or brings them upstairs to his own apartment for himself; giving them to Steve isn’t harming anything at all. 

“Don’t tell anyone I own and use a microwave,” he tells Steve as he takes two bowls out of the fridge and uncovers them, moving to reheat the first one. “It’ll ruin my homegrown crunchy granola reputation.” Steve outright laughs at him.

“Homegrown crunchy granola isn’t how I would describe your reputation,” he tells him, and Bucky turns a mock-offended look at the other man. 

“How would you describe it, then?” he asks, and he switches on the kettle he keeps on the stove. Yes, eating something is going to be helpful for his exhaustion, but he’s well equipped for when this happens. He spends many of his good days prepping for his bad ones, and he grabs a bag of premade ginseng tea, setting it in a mug on the counter.

“Intimidating?” Steve answers, and Bucky raises his brows. 

“What? What about me is intimidating?” He’s standing here in a floor-length velvet skirt with a cat on his shoulder; he’s not sure what Steve could mean. He gets an unimpressed look in response. 

“Bucky you have a metal arm and can move things with your mind,” he says bluntly, and Bucky chokes on a laugh. 

“Yeah, alright,” he concedes, shrugging his left shoulder carefully, only to wince faintly at the burn the motion brings. He reaches back and turns the heat up on the kettle, willing it to boil faster. Concern flashes over Steve’s face once more, but he doesn’t ask. Bucky is grateful; he doesn’t mind people mentioning the arm. It’s an obvious thing, shining and silver, a white pentacle painted carefully on the upper bicep. It draws attention - both bad and good - and he’s relieved that Steve doesn’t shy away from it. Still, that doesn’t mean he wants to get in depth about it, about his chronic pain or the PTSD or the trauma behind it. That’s too much for a casual lunch between friends. Not even friends. Barely acquaintances. 

“So what’s the breakfast bowl? Is it magic or regular?” Steve must have read the menu, or just been paying attention, realizing that not everything Bucky sells is charmed or spelled. 

“Regular. Potatoes are magical enough on their own, I think,” Bucky tells him, and Steve chuckles.

“You sound like my Ma. She was Irish,” he says, and Bucky smiles.

“Your ma was a smart woman.”

“Yeah, she was.” Steve’s smile goes a little sad, a little far away, and luckily, the microwave dings then. Bucky turns to it and opens the door, using his left hand to pull out the steaming bowl and setting it in front of Steve with a fork.

“Eat,” he commands him, and when Steve looks ready to complain about being served first, Bucky levels him with a look. Steve’s mouth snaps closed, looking properly abashed, and he picks up his fork. Bucky tries not to be too amused at rendering this mountain speechless, but he has to turn his back to Steve to hide his smirk. 

He catches the kettle just before it starts whistling, and pours it over his tea, allowing it to steep as he warms up his own bowl. They stand in companionable silence for a few minutes, before Bucky hears a clink of Steve’s fork on an empty bowl. He looks over, surprised. 

“Finished?” he asks, careful to keep his voice neutral. He’s had his own negative experiences with food; he’s not going to sound shocked or judging if Steve is a quick eater. He’s a big guy - Bucky’s sure he can put food away. The sheepish smile Steve gives him tells him that not exclaiming anything was the right way to go. “Want another?”

“Oh, I’m okay--” Steve is interrupted by his stomach growling, and Bucky gives him a soft smile. 

“I’ve got plenty, Steve,” he tells him. “My sister would thank you for taking it off my hands - it’ll go to her otherwise, and she complains if I give her too much. Doesn’t want to be coddled, you know?” He shrugs. Steve looks like he might protest again, but seems to think better of it.

“Okay,” he agrees, then - “Thanks, Buck.” Bucky comes up short. 

Buck. That’s...new. No one’s ever thought to give him a nickname of his nickname - not that Steve even knows his real first name. Even his mom started calling him Bucky once he struggled his way through the uncomfortable conversation about how disconcertingly masculine James sounded. He feels himself blushing. 

“You’re welcome,” he says quietly after a soft pause, then turns to his tea, fiddling with the bag. Patience has never been his virtue; he keeps touching it like that will make it go faster, knowing that it won’t, but he doesn’t know how much longer he can keep meeting Steve’s soft, earnest gaze without combusting.

The microwave beeps again, and Bucky retrieves the bowl, setting it in front of Steve again, then moving to the fridge. He made himself some protein smoothies that morning and hadn’t finished; he grabs the pitcher and pours it into a glass, placing a reusable straw in it and setting it wordlessly in front of Steve along with a napkin. He gets a near-withering look in reply and merely smiles in response, returning to his tea. A bit of honey later and he’s slouching across from Steve, Alpine finally leaping from his shoulder gracefully to coil up on the cat bed in the corner. Steve eyes his mug.

“I don’t think tea counts as lunch,” he says, taking a draw from his smoothie. Bucky smiles crookedly.

“I’ll eat,” he reassures him. “This is magic. Ginseng, for energy, plus an extra boost added to it when I had some to spare. Eating when I feel like this isn’t always the best idea - this’ll help me stomach it.” Steve frowns again. The expression seems at home on his face, and Bucky finds he doesn’t like that. 

“Does...Magic make you sick?” Steve asks, voice cautious, like he’s afraid he’s asking something offensive. Bucky gives him another kind, albeit tired, smile.

“Magic comes with a price,” he explains, then pauses to sip his tea. He lets it sit on his tongue, feeling the burn, before he swallows. “For me, that price is my energy. My life force, I guess, if you wanna get technical about it.” Steve looks alarmed, and Bucky rushes to continue. “It’s not deathly. Not unless I get over my head.” He doesn’t react when memory makes his left shoulder throb. “It can take a physical toll as well.” It doesn’t take a genius to piece that together, and Bucky is quickly learning that Steve is sharp; his eyes flick to the grey streak at Bucky’s temple, and Bucky’s smile goes a little wry. “So I’ll drink this,” he nods to his mug, “and I’ll eat some food, and then I’ll be just fine.” Steve seems comforted by the reassurance, and Bucky does his best to not read into it. Steve is a good man; Bucky can tell just from their limited interactions. Caring for a stranger - a stranger he’s buying a service from, even - just shows how true that is. 

“If you’re sure,” Steve says, and Bucky laughs quietly. 

“You’re not the most trusting guy, are you?” he asks, but it isn’t mean. Steve’s mouth twists to the side in an abashed expression. “Don’t think I don’t remember the look on your face when I told you I was gonna give you tea when you first showed up here.” Steve groans.

“Listen, I just--” But Bucky laughs, interrupting him.

“Steve, it’s fine. You’re not the first, you won’t be the last. I’m more worried about how you make it through a day if you’re constantly second guessing people’s intentions.” Steve is quiet for a long beat.

“...Since I came here,” he says cautiously, “to - uh. New York, I guess - I’ve noticed a lot of people aren’t always upfront about their intentions.” Bucky’s brows furrow lightly, and his heart pangs gently.

“...I know what you mean,” he says softly. They lapse into silence again, but it’s not uncomfortable. 

By the time Bucky finishes his tea, he feels better, but not enough to eat. He waves away the noises of concern that Steve makes and just sets the dishes in the sink. He moves to work on Steve’s order and Steve speaks up again.

“Your eyes are still purple,” he says, and Bucky sighs.

“They might be for a while,” he says honestly. “I never know how long it’ll take for my body to settle again. It could be a day or two, honestly.” He’d not thought about how it had been the full moon two nights ago; he’d used so much energy then that there hadn’t been much left for mundane tasks like the little show he’d put on behind the counter. “Really. I’m okay, Steve.” Steve sighs softly, but raises his hands in surrender and allows Bucky to work.

“So you did everything like I told you to, right?” Bucky asks halfway through cutting the sigil into the second bread. His eyes flick up in time to see Steve’s vigorous nod.

“Steeped the tea for fifteen minutes,” he parrots obediently, “drank it two hours before bed. Ate the bread right before I brushed my teeth and laid down. It all worked like a charm.”

“Good, cause that’s what it was,” Bucky says cheerily, and Steve levels him with a playfully unamused look. 

He packs up a week’s worth for Steve, tells him to come back when he needs more.

“Or - if you want lunch again,” he offers impulsively. There’s a loneliness that follows Steve. Bucky knows he has friends - or at least one, the one who recommended his shop - but there’s a light in him that just says he needs people. Bucky’s never been able to turn away a sad soul. And there’s still the puzzling sensation of the magic that pulses through Steve. Bucky is fairly certain that Steve is human - but something’s been done to him. It’s got Bucky curious, for sure, and he wonders if it’s why Steve is so lonely. If no one can see past that magic, see the human man underneath.

“You’re always welcome,” he tells Steve, and he gets a soft, sweet smile in return. 

“Thanks, Buck,” Steve says as he pays for his bag, much larger this time than the first, and Bucky flicks his fingers to unlock the door as Steve walks to it. He watches as he disappears through it, then sighs, walking over to lock it manually this time before disappearing into the kitchen again. There’s stairs in the back that lead up to Bucky’s apartment, and Alpine follows him as he makes his way up them. The shop will stay closed for the rest of the day - Bucky needs a damn nap.

When he lands face down on his mattress, clothes still on, it’s the small, thankful grin that Steve had tossed him that lulls him to sleep.

\-- 

They develop a routine, after that.

Steve comes in once a week for his regular order - but he also stops by in the days between. He stops letting Bucky close the whole shop down for him unless they’re sharing lunch, but Bucky moves one of the smaller tables into the kitchen from the front of the shop so Steve has a place to hang out. Alpine is only too happy, and the first time Steve brings a sketchbook, Bucky constantly hears the clatter of pencils against the kitchen floor accompanied by Steve’s happy laugh as cat paws bat them all over the place. 

Soon Steve is comfortable enough to just come in with a smile and immediately come around the counter, his hand pressing gently to Bucky’s lower back as he squeezes his bulk between him and the wall to slide from the noisy shop into the quiet of the kitchen. And if Bucky’s started to let Steve stay after hours, or letting him come when the shop is closed and he’s baking to fill the display cases, that’s between himself, Steve, and the knowing, judging looks Alpine throws at him.  Before he realizes it, Steve’s worked his way into Bucky’s life seamlessly, and as September fades into October, Steve’s beginning to feel as though he’s never been without him at all. Bucky feels the same.

He's never been one to allow people in the kitchen with him while he’s working. It takes a lot of focus to do what he does, to enchant and bake and make sure that not only does the spell turn out right, but the baking is edible and delicious and up to his own standards of perfection. He won’t sell something subpar, magic-wise or flavor-wise or presentation-wise. This means he doesn’t allow a lot of distractions, Alpine typically the only one allowed to keep him company in his kitchen.

Steve is an exception.

For a mountain of a man, he can make himself small and quiet as a mouse with his sketchbook in hand. The sound of his pencil dragging over the paper blends in with the radio playing, and his presence at Bucky’s back is reassuring. Bucky waves his left hand absently, the bag of chocolate chips floating within his reach, and he lets it tip, pouring a healthy amount into his bowl. He sends it back to the counter, and hears the scratching of Steve’s pencil pause. 

Silence sits between them, not uncomfortable, but present, and when Steve doesn’t go back to his drawing, Bucky speaks up.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he asks, eyes on his bowl. It’s a few more moments before he gets a response.

“Where I come from,” Steve begins quietly, “magic wasn’t...Like this.”

He talks like this sometimes; vague references to his past, alluding to there being more than meets the eye. He’ll say ‘back home,’ or ‘where I come from,’ and it’s confusing for Bucky - because when Steve talks about home, it’s with a very distinct, familiar Brooklyn drawl.

Bucky wants to press. He wants to press  _ so bad _ . But the beauty of their conversations is the openness between them, the lack of expectation, the ease they have with each other. Steve is uncomfortable with his past. Bucky won’t press until he’s invited to. And so he takes the easier route.

“What was it like?” he asks, and he hears the sigh Steve blows out behind him. He’s quiet for a few seconds, and Bucky lets him gather his thoughts.

“...Secretive,” is what Steve finally lands on, and Bucky hums his understanding. “There weren’t shops like yours - or if there were, they weren’t this nice. And I didn’t know anyone who did their magic through food.” Bucky chuckles.

“There’s plenty of kitchen witches,” he tells him, glancing Steve’s way. A purple cloud lifts his mixing bowl, lets him turn to rest against the counter to look Steve in the eye as they talk. He keeps mixing. “I bet you knew them but didn’t know it. And I bet you anything that if they made you something, there was magic in it.” Steve looks at him like he’d never thought of the possibility.

“But...Wouldn’t I have been able to tell?” he asks, and Bucky shrugs.

“Did my bread taste magical?” He lifts a brow.

“Yes,” Steve says immediately, and Bucky almost frowns - “but in the sense that it was fucking delicious, not that it tasted charmed.” Bucky feels his cheeks warm, and he looks back down at the bowl. He’s owned his own shop for years and been baking since he could stand, but compliments still make him flush. Especially when they come from Steve. Steve compliments him like he’s merely stating a fact, not hoping to butter him up or flatter him. It’s disarming sometimes.

“That’s my point,” he says once he thinks he can look up without turning into a tomato. “Magic isn’t always obvious. It’s not all purple clouds and incantations.” 

“I’ve never heard you do an incantation, that’s true,” Steve muses, and Bucky smiles. “Purple clouds, though. Is that natural, or just your flair for the dramatic?” His voice goes teasing, and Bucky narrows his eyes. 

“A magician never reveals his secrets,” he says loftily, but he can’t help smiling at the disbelieving snort Steve gives in reply.

“But no,” Steve continues, shaking his head with a crooked grin. “It’s just...Different. You know? Not bad. Just. Very different from what I’m used to. Back home, most magic was, like, trinkets - not that they can’t be magical!” He interrupts himself, suddenly looking as if he’s afraid he’s offended Bucky. He simply waves his metal hand at him in dismissal. 

“No, I know what you mean. A lot of magic can seem kitschy - and some of it is, honestly.” He moves then, releasing the bowl he’s still holding and letting the cloud of purple support it as he pulls out a cookie sheet from a low cabinet. The bowl trails lazily after him. “You get the standard roadside salesmen - they’ve been around for centuries. Selling whatever they happen to find and calling it enchanted, calling it lucky.” He doles out the cookie dough onto the sheet as he speaks, carefully shaping them and spacing them far enough apart. “Some of them are legit - or at least some of what they sell is legit. Other times, well.” He glances up at Steve to see the understanding on the other man’s face. Maybe those witches were the type Steve was used to running into. It would explain why he’d seemed so dubious when he’d first entered Bucky’s shop and heard all he was giving him was a cup of tea and some bread. 

He takes the tray in his right hand and opens one of the ovens with the left, sliding it in carefully and setting the timer. They won’t take long, but the oven had taken long enough to preheat and he’d taken so much time on the cookie dough, distracted by Steve, that his bread dough should be done rising. The mixing bowl that he’d mostly forgotten about trails behind him still, but a wave of his hand sends it to the sink, where it falls with a clatter that Bucky swears manages to sound petulant. 

“Other times it’s just bullshit,” Steve says bluntly, and Bucky laughs quietly, pulling the towel off the bowl that holds his dough.

“Yeah, that’s about right,” he agrees. He punches into the bowl, popping the dough with a satisfying squish, then turns it out onto the floured counter to begin kneading it.

“But you don’t do that stuff,” Steve says. It isn’t a question. “The kitschy stuff. The lucky rabbit’s feet and all that.” Bucky shakes his head. The dough is sticking to his hands, and so he adds more flour, working it in smoothly. 

“I do some of the stereotypical magic that some people are looking for, though. The luck charms, a beauty potion or two. Nothing permanent, obviously - it’s near-impossible to permanently change someone’s body with magic. The strength it takes…” he trails off, shaking his head. “People have tried - they always fail, as far as I know.” Steve makes a vague sound, and so Bucky continues. “All my stuff is pretty surface-level on that. I’m way better with mental things. Anxiety, stress. Nightmares. You get it.”

“I get it,” Steve agrees. “‘Sides, even back then I thought that stuff was kinda pointless. Love spells, and all.” He says it dismissively, but Bucky still stiffens without thinking, his shoulders going a little tighter.

“I don’t do love spells,” Bucky says quietly, and suddenly Steve worries that he’s hit a nerve, or done something wrong. Bucky’s voice is easy, still relaxed, but as Steve watches a tight furrow begins to form between his brows. His hands work the dough on the counter, kneading in steady rolling movements, but there’s a faraway look in his eyes. “It’s not...It’s not right. To take away someone’s agency like that. To control their emotions, their feelings. That’s not love.” 

Steve nods his agreement. A heavy air is descending upon the kitchen.

“It’s not, no,” he says quietly, and he shrugs off where he was leaning against the counter, taking a few steps closer to Bucky. The other man always seems so self-assured, so comfortable, especially in his own kitchen, but now he seems off kilter. Something twists in Steve’s chest, tight and uncomfortable, wondering where Bucky’s gone - because he’s not here, not all the way. His eyes are still focused on the dough, but there’s a faraway look there, and his hands are slowing and going lighter. 

Without thinking, Steve reaches out, lifting a hand and tucking a lock of grey hair that’s slipping from Bucky’s bun behind his ear. 

He lingers there for a moment, just long enough to watch Bucky’s eyes flutter and then flick up to Steve, awareness returning. 

“I would never do anything to take away someone’s choice, Steve,” he says, and his expression is searching, like he  _ needs _ Steve to believe him. Steve meets his eyes evenly. This close, the blue swallows any shade of grey he thought he might have seen, clear and crystal. Slowly, he nods.

“I know, Buck,” he says quietly, his hand falling to rest at the curve of Bucky’s neck and shoulder. He reaches up with his thumb, rubbing the pad of it so very gently along the line of his jaw. His stubble rasps against the skin. Bucky seems to relax with the touch, head turning towards Steve’s palm the slightest bit. They’re so close. Steve can see the flour clinging to the collar of Bucky’s shirt. He smells like powdered sugar. His eyes flick down to Bucky’s lips, pink and soft, and--

A shrill sound goes through the kitchen, making the both of them jump. Bucky laughs nervously. 

“Cookies,” he says, and then he’s gone, stepping away from Steve’s touch to pull the tray from the oven. He opens it with his right, reaches in with his left, the metal unbothered by the heat of the oven or the tray. Steve stands and watches him a few moments more, before finally retreating back to where his sketchbook rests.

“God, that oven’s hot,” Bucky murmurs as he turns back around, but Steve can tell the flush on his face isn’t from the heat. For once in his life, though, he bites his tongue. Instead he grins over at Bucky.

“So what’s a guy gotta do to get one a’ those cookies, huh?” he asks, and Bucky scoffs.

“Not a chance in hell, Steve,” he shoots back, but about ten minutes later there’s a small saucer with three cookies on it appearing at his elbow. 

\--

Bucky tells Becca everything - he always has. And yet for some reason, he's kept Steve private. What they have, it's different. It's not for public consumption. It's theirs. He wants to keep it that way. 

But then Steve casually scoots a three hundred pound fridge like he's nudging a chair in, and Bucky cannot hold it back any longer.

"Becca holy fuck," he says when she comes in the shop that morning. He's been up all night wondering about Steve. He’d finally admitted that he wouldn’t be getting any sleep around 5 am, and he’s been down in the shop ever since. He’s on his fourth cup of coffee, and based on the wary look Becca is giving him, it shows.

“Good morning to you too, Bucky,” she says, hefting her large canvas bag onto the counter. “I’m doing great, thanks for asking. How are you?” 

The Barnes family can trace their magic roots all the way to the start, but the way that magic manifests is different for almost every member. While Bucky’s powers work best with food, Becca’s magic lies in gardening. She can do some absolutely insane stuff with a little dirt and a few seeds. Bucky’s never seen anything like it, and doubts he will. Her herbs and fruits and spices are the only ones he trusts when he’s dealing with his charmed goods. 

It also helps that Becca lets him pay her for them; he’s got an innate need to take care of his little sister, but she’s always been the more stubborn out of the two of them. If he maybe overpays for his orders, at least she doesn’t call him out on it.

He scoffs at her and takes the bag by the handles, shrugging it onto his shoulder and nodding for Becca to follow him into the kitchen.

“I am losing my fucking mind,” he says as he begins to unpack the ingredients.

“You did that a long time ago,” Becca shoots back, swiping a sweet bun from the tray. “What’s this?”

“Eat it,” he tells her, and she obediently takes a large bite. He busies himself around the kitchen, unpacking the bag and storing the contents away, and he begins to talk.

“So there’s this guy--”

“Oh god,” Becca interrupts, and Bucky can practically hear her cover her face with her hand. 

“Shut up - there’s this  _ guy _ ,” he starts again, slamming a cabinet door a little too hard. “And he’s been coming in every few days, and he’s, like, gorgeous. Becca he’s fucking gorgeous.” 

“How much coffee have you had?”

“Shut  _ up -  _ he’s like six two and blond and built like a brick shithouse, Becks, I swear to God. That man could bench press me and I would thank him.”

“Okay, so he’s sexy,” Becca says dryly, and Bucky tosses a glare over at her. She’s seated herself at the small table - Steve’s table - and has a plate in front of her with several of the sweet buns. “I’m not seeing the big deal. You deal with sexy guys all the time.” Bucky deflates a little.

“He’s...nice,” he says haltingly, and Becca raises her brows. 

“Sexy and nice,” she teases, “well hell, Bucky, can he string a sentence together? Cause that’s the trifecta.”

“I hate you,” he tells her. “Have I said that lately? That I hate you?”

“Every time we speak. Now go on, tell me more.” She waves sugar-covered fingers at him. 

“He’s just--” he starts, about to explain the inexplicable presence that seems to follow Steve, and the fact that he _nudged_ a three _hundred pound_ **_fridge,_** but the tinkling of the shop door makes him go quiet. He sighs, setting the bag down. “One sec!” he calls towards the front, but then Alpine is rushing from the corner of the kitchen at breakneck speed, letting out a happy yowling noise, and Bucky knows who’s in the front end. “Oh God,” he mumbles, just in time to hear that warm, familiar rumble of a laugh.

Becca is looking at where the streak of white that is his cat used to be, confounded by the fact that his normally people-adverse familiar just ripped through the room to get at some random customer, and Bucky mumbles, “he’s here.”

Right on cue, the kitchen door swings open, Steve stepping in with a bright smile with Alpine curled against his chest. He’s wearing a leather jacket. Bucky cannot handle this . 

“Y’know, I’m not sure I believe all these stories you tell me about how fierce this little lady is,” he’s saying, grinning at the cat in his arms, “cause every time I see her she’s just a big ol’ cuddle bug.”

Bucky snorts, opening his mouth to reply, but Becca beats him to it. 

“She’s evil,” she says, and Steve’s head snaps up in surprise, his cheeks going pink. “I’ve got the scars to prove it.” Bucky watches as Steve’s blush worsens, eyes flicking between Bucky and Becca.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, taking a small, aborted step back, “I didn’t mean to interrupt--” It’s been so long since Steve’s been anxious around him that Bucky almost panics in his rush to soothe it.

“You’re fine, Steve. This is Becca, my sister. Becks, this is Steve, my--friend,” he almost stumbles over the words, but catches himself, and he watches as Becca stands fluidly and offers her not sugar covered hand to Steve, who juggles a still-purring Alpine to one arm to shake her hand.

“Pleasure to meet you, Ma’am, Bucky’s told me a lot about you,” he says, and Becca smiles. The expression is smooth as ever, but there’s a tension around her eyes that has Bucky feeling a little defensive. 

“Only good things, I hope,” she jokes, “and please, just Becca is fine. I don’t think any woman in our family wants to be called ma’am.” Steve laughs quietly. 

“Force of habit,” he excuses with a shrug. He’s looking at Becca strange, like he’s still nervous, and Becca keeps  _ staring  _ at him - Bucky knows Steve is sexy, but damn, even he doesn’t stare at the guy that much.

“I thought I gave you a week’s worth yesterday,” Bucky says, trying to break the awkward tension. “Don’t tell me it’s stopped working.” Steve is quick to shake his head and reassure Bucky. 

“No! No, it’s working perfectly as always,” he says, and Bucky gives him a relieved smile. It slips when he continues, though. “No - I just stopped by to let you know I’m gonna be outta town for a few days. Probably a week.” Alpine leaps from his arms, and Steve reaches up to rub absently at the back of his neck. 

“Oh,” Bucky says, nodding, “okay - do you need me to get you some extra?” he’s already moving towards the tea canisters, but Steve cuts him off with a shake of his head.

“Nah, we’re packing light - I’ll be fine. ”  His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Bucky doesn’t like it. “I just stopped by to let you know,” he trails off then, his eyes flicking to Becca again, who has kindly made herself a little scarce, returning to her seat with her phone in her hand and acting like she can’t hear them. Still, Bucky knows how much Steve values their privacy here; he can’t feel very comfortable with an audience.

“Thanks for the head’s up,” he says warmly, pulling the man’s focus back to himself. “Where are you going? When are you heading out?”

“Uh - now?” Steve answers with a sheepish smile, and Bucky blinks in surprise. 

“Oh. Well - have you eaten?” He gets a shake of the head in response, and levels Steve with a look. Minutes later he’s got three breakfast bowls packed up and an extra large smoothie pressed into Steve’s hands. 

“Buck, I can’t take this--” Steve starts to protest, but Bucky cuts him off.

“You can, and you will,” he insists, and Steve sighs, blushing and giving a fond smile that makes Bucky’s heart skip a beat. “Can’t let you leave hungry, my ma would smack me with a wooden spoon.”   
“It’s true,” Becca pipes up, pulling a laugh from Steve.

“Alright, alright. I really do gotta go - I’ll stop back in when I’m back, okay?” Bucky nods. His stomach twists tight at the idea of going a whole week without seeing Steve. 

“Okay. Stay safe, have fun, all that.” He waves Steve away, and Steve grins.

“Sir yes sir,” he teases, and then he’s gone. It’s not until the kitchen door stops swinging that Bucky realizes Steve never told him where he’s going.

“Bucky,” Becca says when the tinkle of the shop bell has quieted after Steve’s exit, her voice carefully calm, “when were you going to mention that sexy Steve is  _ Captain goddamn America?” _

Bucky snorts a laugh before he can help it. “What?” he asks, laughing. “Steve’s not--” He looks over at Becca, and the look on her face cuts him off. He blinks at her, his mind going blank.

“...Steve’s not Captain America,” he says slowly, quietly. Becca’s expression turns disbelieving.

“Bucky,” she says, “come on.”

“He’s not!” he insists, but even he can hear the hysterical edge creeping into his voice. “No - why would he - why would  _ Captain America _ come into  _ my _ shop?” Then again, if anyone has reason for a nightly nightmare remedy, he supposes it would be a man fresh from an active war zone and thrown seventy years into the future.

“What did you give him a week’s worth of yesterday?” Becca demands, and Bucky deflates a little. 

“...Sleeping draught and a nightmare repelling charm,” he admits, and Becca points at him. 

“Are you  _ kidding me _ Bucky? A giant boulder of a man comes in reeking that much of magic, asking for nightmare repellants, and you don’t put that together? You watch the news! You’re smart! What the hell!”

“He’s not a boulder,” Bucky defends nonsensically. Becca tosses her hands up.

“That is  _ so _ not the important part, Bucky!” Her voice is going a little shrill, and Bucky groans, reaching up to rub his forehead. 

“Look -  _ look!” _ he starts, interrupting her tirade before she can get started. “Captain America wasn’t made with magic! He was made with science! There was a whole chapter about him in school in history  _ and _ science to explain that!” 

“It was the forties, Bucky! No one was going to admit they made the military’s best asset with some spells and incantations!”

“This - Becks, this is ridiculous,” Bucky laughs. “You know this is ridiculous! Captain America isn’t - Steve’s not--” 

“Bucky--”

“No!” His voice goes sharp, and Becca comes up short. Bucky’s chest feels tight. “No,” he repeats, quieter this time. “Look, I - I barely slept last night, Becks, thanks for bringing by the order but I think I’m gonna close up for today.” It’s an unceremonious dismissal, and he can see on her face that it hurts her. They shouldn’t be fighting, not over this - and yet he can’t stop himself. Becca scoffs.

“Whatever, Bucky,” she shoots back, standing and snatching her bag from the counter. “When you stop being so stubborn and dissolve into an anxiety attack, don’t call me.” She storms out of the shop then, and Bucky can hear the sound of the bell jingling harshly when she slams the door. He throws his metal hand out in the direction of the front. A purple cloud shoots through the kitchen door, and he hears the lock click into place and the sign slap against the glass as it flips.

He stands there for a few moments, breathing heavily, and closes his eyes tightly. His right hand is shaking.

_ “Mrow,”  _ he hears, and a soft, warm pressure brushes against his calf. He breathes out shakily, letting Alpine’s presence soothe his frazzled edges. He opens his eyes, meeting her yellow ones, and nods.

“I know,” he mumbles to her. “‘S not her fault.” He gets a slow blink in reply, and Alpine bumps her head into his leg gently. He scoops her up with a sigh.

“Let’s make some magic,” he tells her, and turns to the messy counter to get started.

\--

Hours later, he’s sitting on the kitchen floor in front of the oven, watching a batch of dinner rolls turn golden brown. There’s a purple haze sitting heavy in the air, and Bucky couldn’t even say what he’d used his magic for; certainly not for cleaning. The kitchen is trashed, flour and fillings and dirty dishes everywhere. 

It’s there, surrounded by absolute chaos, with his familiar batting a rogue measuring spoon around the floor, that Bucky finally admits it.

“Steve’s Captain America,” he mumbles to himself, and he gives a hysterical little laugh. He feels stupid for not piecing it together sooner - the talk of home, the anxiety in the crowded shop, his distrust of people - of new people, anyway, saying they weren’t how they used to be, weren’t how he was used to them being. Because he was used to the fucking nineteen forties. 

And the magic. The waves of magic that just about knocked Bucky down when he first met him, that he slowly but surely got used to, until it was nothing but background noise overshadowed by the man in front of him. He’d told Steve once that it was nearly impossible to permanently alter someone’s body with magic. He hadn’t realized he’d been talking to the only exception to the rule.

“Motherfucker,” he sighs, letting his head fall back to thump against the cabinets behind him. Alpine abandons her spoon, trotting over to him to bump his arm gently with her nose. He looks over at her, his hand coming down to gently scratch beneath her chin.

“Did you know?” he asks, narrowing his eyes, but he only gets a slow blink in return. He sighs, looking back to the oven, and scoffs. “Fucking dinner rolls. Why did you let me make dinner rolls?” Alpine gives a soft  _ mrrp! _ “Entirely unhelpful, but thank you.” He taps her little nose with the tip of his finger, then sighs, standing and brushing off his long skirt. 

He was not dressed for a day of baking today - he was dressed to work the shop, his skirt high waisted and floor length, his crop top short and with a low, scooping neckline to show off his tattoos. Now his black outfit is covered in various baking ingredients, and something sticky is covering the right eye socket of the ram’s skull on his chest. He doesn’t even want to think about how much of a pain it’s going to be to get whatever that is out of his chest hair, but instead of reaching for a towel or a washcloth, he reaches for the timer, switching it off before it blares. He pulls the rolls from the oven, setting them on the stove, and finally turns the oven off for the first time since that morning.

If Steve is Captain America, then that means he’s a reckless idiot who carries a metal shield as a weapon and decided to paint it like a target. It means he lives a dangerous life, one so far from the one Bucky lives - even far from the one he  _ lived _ , back when he was strong and powerful and thought he was invincible. 

It means, Bucky realizes with a cold, chilling ice sliding down his spine, that when Steve didn’t tell him where he was going this morning, it was because he  _ couldn’t.  _ Because he’s on a top secret, probably incredibly dangerous mission that only a genetically enhanced super-soldier could survive. 

Bucky thinks he might be sick, and is abruptly grateful for the fact that despite spending all day baking, he hasn’t eaten a single thing. Taking a deep breath, he finally turns around to get a handle on the downward spiral he threw all over his kitchen. He’s never allowed the dishes to pile up this bad, and if he whines and complains under his breath, there’s only Alpine to hear him. 

It’s dark by the time he makes it upstairs. Alpine trails after him on soft paws, then rushes ahead, coming to a stop in a corner of the apartment he doesn’t go to often. She sits, then fixes him with a look, yellow eyes glowing in the light from the windows. He pauses when he sees her, then cracks a smile. He follows her.

His altar isn't large. In fact, it's much smaller than most others he's seen. It's just a small table against a far wall, covered with a large piece of black lace fabric that could really do with a washing. Herbs and flower petals and sand and dirt are pressed deep into the fabric, staining even the wood beneath it, and as he brushes his fingertips over the wooden edge, it seems to hum warmly at him. 

He doesn't do what some consider "traditional" magic often. It's never been his strong suit, even before his incident. But sometimes the occasion calls for it, and with Steve far away doing god knows what, he can't exactly feed him baked goods full of protection and care. This is the next best thing. A simple spell, but effective. Strong. Personal. He sighs, then closes his eyes, clearing his mind so he can work. 

Casting a circle comes easily to him. Behind his closed eyelids he can see the glow of purple lights looping around him and the altar. It settles around and over and under him, surrounding him from all sides in a warm, safe embrace. He's protected here - and so is any work he does. When he opens his eyes, it’s just him and the altar and Alpine and a warm, neon-like purple glow from below. He knows if he looks down, he’ll see the circle on the hardwood. He stays focused instead.

There’s a small collection of tapered candles on the corner of the table, and he picks up a black one. His other hand finds a small but wickedly sharp knife, and he carefully carves Steve’s name into the wax. Sigils follow after - the same one he puts on his bread, and then others, and as he works, Bucky focuses on what he wants - protection. Safety. Care. He wants Steve to be okay. He  _ needs _ Steve to be okay. To come home, safe and sound. When he’s done, he sets the knife down, then raises his hand. The wick ignites. Carefully, he places the now-burning candle into a wax-covered holder, pulling it to the center of the altar, and he takes a deep breath. 

Alpine is weaving her way between his legs, and when he glances down, her usually yellow eyes match the purple haze surrounding them. He smiles at her, and she gives him another sweet, slow blink.

“He’ll be okay,” he says softly, “I’ll make sure of it.” He holds his hands out in front of him and watches as that same neon light begins to form sigils against his palms.

He looks back to the candle, staring into the flame, and pictures Steve’s face. Then he speaks. 

_ “Darkness swirls, and evils attack. That which is wicked, I push thee back. Forces of evil, you are rejected. By loving light, he is protected. From his path, all harm is deflected. These words are my ward, he is protected.” _

Warmth rains down on him, from the top of his head and shuddering all through his body. There’s a swift, strong breeze that makes his hair flutter, but he doesn’t move, standing still and tall in the face of the spell. The candle’s flame spikes up high for a few seconds, burning blindingly bright before dying down to normal size, and he knows he’s been heard. He smiles, even as fatigue slams into him suddenly. 

There’s a reason he doesn’t do magic like this often anymore, and his left shoulder throbs in a sharp reminder as to why. His eyes flutter, and he doesn’t have to look in a mirror to know they’re purple. Alpine gently meows at him, and he takes the bump she gives him as the guidance it is, taking a few clumsy steps away until he’s left the circle and landed on the couch in a sprawl of skirt layers and exhaustion. 

The cat leaps up daintily and lands in his lap, and his right hand lands gently on her back, holding her against him. His head falls against the couch’s arm rest, and he closes his eyes. The candle will go out once it reaches the holder, sealing the spell in tightly, but Bucky is asleep long before the light is extinguished.

\--

It’s three days before Steve’s able to sit still long enough to miss Bucky, but once he’s got the chance, it hits him like a brick.

The safe house is small, but with only Natasha on the mission with him, it’s easy to work out some privacy. He’d given her the bedroom and landed on the couch, and while she’d teased him about his old fashioned gentlemanly ways, he could see the gratefulness in the tilt of her lips. She’d disappeared behind the rickety door hours ago and Steve hasn’t heard a peep since. He tells himself he isn’t jealous that one of his best friends is finally getting the rest she so clearly deserves after this trainwreck of a mission, but he isn’t sure he believes himself.

He feels heavy in a way he hasn’t in weeks, restless and frustrated, and he finally shoves his bulk up from the small couch in the dark hours after midnight and makes his way to the sparsely stocked kitchen in search of  _ something _ to take his mind off the swirling mess his head’s turning into.

There’s not much to go through, but tucked in the back of the pantry is a box of black tea. Steve wrinkles his nose up, but still grabs it, pulling a mug from the cabinet. There’s no kettle, and he can practically hear Bucky yelling at him as he fills the mug from the sink and puts it in the microwave.

He stands in front of it, staring listlessly as he watches the cup make its rotations around. He hadn’t realized just how much time he spent with Bucky until suddenly even the option to see him is gone. And somehow, foolishly, he’d come to rely on Bucky’s magic to be there for him. The last few nights they’ve barely stopped moving, unable to pause in their pursuit, and yet even now when he’s running on fumes he can’t manage to fall asleep. The absence of a warm mug in his hand and a sweet thick bread is jarring.

Just as jarring is the absence of Bucky’s smile. His laugh. His playful teasing. Steve  _ misses _ him - just him, not what he can do for him. He finds himself longing for a bright, lively kitchen with a beautiful person kneading dough, a cat perched on his lap like it’s where she belongs. He wants a warm hand resting on his, playfully shoving him when he tries to sneak a taste of whatever batter is being whipped up. He wants to be chastised and told no, he doesn’t get to try these cookies, unless he’s suddenly got a very severe case of a broken heart, and if so, Bucky’s going to be  _ very _ put out. 

He wants that soft, fond smile turned on him again. He wants a grey streak of hair twined around his fingers. He wants a soft, pink mouth just a breath away.

The microwave beeps loudly then, and Steve jumps, reaching out to quickly yank the door open, but it’s too late - guilt curls in his stomach when the sound of shifting floorboards reaches his keen hearing, and he winces, gripping the mug out of the microwave and ignoring the sting of the hot ceramic on his fingers.

When he closes the door, Natasha’s reflection is behind him, but he doesn’t startle.

“Can’t sleep?” she asks, arms crossed over her chest. She’s still in most of her uniform - tac pants and an undershirt, feet bare, same as him. He hadn’t been kidding when he’d told Bucky they were packing light - they hadn’t packed at all, save for what could tactically fit on their person. She’s a little worse-off than he is, as usual. It was strange, though, he thinks. Usually he’s more banged up, he just heals faster, but this time he’s barely gotten a scratch. It was like the agents firing at him suddenly forgot how to aim. Natasha, however, has bandages and gauze wrapped around her arms and pressed to her torso. She needs rest, and he sighs, mouth twisting.

“Sorry--” he starts, but she lifts a hand to stop him.

“I’ve been up for an hour,” she tells him, and the guilt lifts a bit. On his sleepless nights back in the tower, Natasha was frequently his late-night company when she was home. Sometimes they talked, sometimes they sat in silence, but either way, they supported one another. He reaches for a second mug.

It’s got nothing on Bucky’s tea, that’s for damn sure, but Steve stirs in enough sugar to undercut the stale taste of old tea leaves and carries both mugs to the table. Natasha’s taken a seat, and he joins her, setting one quietly in front of her. She gives him a thankful smile, wrapping her small hands around it. 

Natasha’s been away for a while, and he’s missed her - he jumped at the chance for this mission, wanting to spend time with her, but not for the first time he finds himself wishing they were normal people. Normal people just call their friends up to grab lunch when they haven’t seen them in a while. They don’t have to snag positions on top secret dangerous ops just to say hi and catch up. 

He takes a sip of his tea, and Natasha's eyes track the movement, on edge as always when she's working. He raises a brow at her, but she just smiles a bit. "Did you ever go to that shop I recommended?" she asks, and he can feel his cheeks go red.

He clears his throat, and suddenly she looks a little too much like Alpine when Bucky gives in to her demanding meows and sets a dish of cream next to her cat bed.

"I uh--" he starts, swallows, "Yeah, I stopped in."

"Just stopped in?" she asks, and he narrows his eyes at her.

"Why do I feel like you already know the answer to everything you're asking?" he asks, exasperated, and her smile only widens. 

"Tell me about it. The shop," she insists, and Steve groans.

“...I’ve been going every week,” he admits.

"Oh?"

"Yes," he says quietly. "It...helps. Bucky, he's...he's something else." His tone goes fond, and he can’t help the tilt of his lips. 

"I know," Natasha agrees with a tilt of her head. 

"He's just..." 

"Exactly your type?" 

"I--What?" he asks, bewildered.

"Steve," she says, exasperated, "don't be obtuse." 

"I thought you sent me for help sleeping!" Even he can tell his voice is going a little too high in pitch, but he can’t help it. The very idea that Natasha sent him to Bucky for - what? A date? It’s ridiculous. 

"In more ways than one." She winks. Steve thinks he might hate her a little bit. It must show on his face, because she laughs, loud and happy. “Calm down, I’m teasing! Mostly, anyway.” He glares at her, and she only looks more smug. “I really did send you there because I thought he could help. But it seems like you’re helping yourself just fine. Guess you can pick up more than - what’d be give you, cookies?” He stays stubbornly quiet for a few beats, before he sighs in defeat. 

"Bread," he tells her, and she absolutely cackles. “And tea!” He’s whining now. He  _ hates _ her. 

Once her laughter dies down and he’s admitted even to himself that it’s a little funny, they both sigh in tandem. 

“...Nat, I think I could like him,” he admits.

“I think you already do,” she shoots back, and when he flicks his eyes up to hers, he only finds a soft, loving smile waiting for him. He lets his gaze slide away again, focusing out the small kitchen window and into the darkness outside. 

“Our lives…” he begins, and thankfully, she stays silent, letting him gather his thoughts. “I can’t drag him into this. I can’t, Nat.” He doesn’t look away from the window, but he can still feel her keen eyes on his face. 

“I don’t think Bucky’s the kind of person who gets dragged into anything,” she says, and Steve has to nod his agreement. “But I think you should be honest. He doesn’t know, does he?” She doesn’t have to clarify; there’s only one massive secret in Steve’s life, and the shadow of Captain America looms large over Steve Rogers. 

“No,” he sighs. “No, I don’t think he’s figured it out. If he has, he’s a damn good actor.” Natasha hums. “I met his sister,” he says, “the day we left - I stopped in to tell him I’d be gone for awhile. I think...She might have pieced it together. She got that look, y’know?” There’s a particular light in someone’s eyes when they recognize him - tight, almost panic-like. No one knows how to act in front of a living legend, a history book come to life. He can’t blame them, but he can’t help but hate it at the same time. “She’ll tell him, I’m sure.” He knows it - the two of them are too close for her not to. He’s heard the love and loyalty in Bucky’s voice when he talks about Becca; he knows that has to go both ways. Becca probably blurted it the second Steve left.

It will change things, he’s sure. He doesn’t know if he can take Bucky looking at him like Becca had - like he’s something more than he is, more than the friend who shares lunch and teases him and loves his cat. Something like mourning curls tight in his chest, wondering just what he’ll be coming back to the next time he walks into Bucky’s shop.

“Doesn’t matter.” Steve looks back at Natasha at that, surprise in his eyes.

“...What?”

“You’re still you,” she says simply. “He’s still him.”

“It’s not--”

“Not what? That simple? It is, though. You’re Steve.” She shrugs, and Steve stares at her, uncomprehending. She shifts, unwrapping one hand from her mug and reaching across the table.

Her thin fingers wrap tight around Steve’s palm, and their eyes meet, her own unwavering against his.

“You aren’t Cap, Steve,” she says, and Steve’s breath catches in his throat. “You’re just a man. The right people will see that.”  _ Bucky will see that _ sits heavy and unspoken between them, and Steve’s voice fails him. His tongue feels thick, and he can’t get words to come out, and so he just nods tightly. Natasha smiles at him, and keeps hold of his hand. Together they stay like that, tea going cold, as the sunrise begins to peek over the horizon.

\--

Bucky is sure that once Steve comes home, things are going to be awkward. Yes, Bucky’s very used to reining himself in, tamping down his outward responses, but there’s only so much tamping down one can do when they find out the cute guy they’ve been flirting with for weeks is a goddamn superhero.

And he’s right - when Steve comes into the shop a little over a week after he left, he’s tense. His shoulders are tight, and the smile on his face doesn’t reach his eyes. It makes Bucky’s stomach turn, but only for a moment - his attention quickly switches to dragging his gaze over the man in front of him, searching for injury, for a bump or bruise or broken bone. 

He finds nothing, and relief hits him like a truck. The spells worked. He’d done it more than once - every other night while Steve had been gone, regardless of the worried hovering Alpine had done. It hadn’t leant much energy to the spellwork in his shoulder and arm, and maybe he’d been closing the shop a few hours early, but it was worth it for the peace of mind of knowing that Steve was safe. 

“Well hey stranger,” he says warmly, and Steve’s smile twitches a little. “Welcome back.” He won’t say anything, he decided a few nights ago - he’ll let Steve tell him when he’s ready. But keeping his own big mouth shut is going to be a struggle, and he knows his face must read like an open book.

“Thanks,” Steve says quietly, voice muted, a little distant. He looks exhausted, Bucky realizes. Worry has made a familiar home in his chest, and it seems like it’s not going anywhere just yet as it coils tighter. Bucky cocks his head slightly to the side, biting his lips, but then he has to look away, find something to keep his hands busy. He’s got a tray of cookies that need loaded into the display case, and he turns his attention to the task. 

“How was the trip?" he asks, eyes on the tray, hoping the question will make Steve relax a little. It doesn't. If anything, he seems even tenser. 

"Long," he finally says after a quiet moment. Bucky feels a little stupid for even asking - Steve wasn't away on some fun vacation. The news hadn't reported anything, no aliens or sudden massive terrorist groups, so whatever Steve had done had been secret - at least to the public. Dangerous, definitely. He should know better than to ask after it - but if he doesn't ask, does that look suspicious? Does Steve know he knows? Does Steve already think he does? Should he just mention it casually, see what Steve says, what he does, if he reacts at all? Bucky's thoughts are spiralling, hands methodically placing the cookies and nudging them into neat rows, and he can see the shape of Steve moving closer out of the corner of his eye. 

"Buck, I--" he starts, and then doesn't finish, because a loud, angry meow cuts him off, and then Steve is sprawled out on the floor behind the counter, Alpine nothing but a while streak tearing her way through the shop to get to higher ground. Bucky stares at Steve in shock, and the big lug blinks in surprise. 

"Did the fucking cat just trip me?" he asks incredulously, and Bucky can't help it; laughter bursts sharp and sudden out of him, hard enough to make his stomach ache. "Bucky!" Steve whines - whines! Captain America whines! Except - that's not right. No, Steve whines. Steve stares up at him with a wounded, but smiling expression, and Steve takes the hand that's offered to him in assistance, and Steve almost pulls Bucky down to join him in a heap on the floor, the blond’s booming laugh mixing with the peals of laughter Bucky still can’t quite contain. Bucky’s brain feels like it’s resetting itself.

Steve is Steve. It doesn’t matter if he’s Captain America, it doesn’t matter if he didn’t tell Bucky - of course he didn’t tell him. He’s seen the twitter threads stalking the Avengers through the streets, seen the headlines whenever someone gets a glimpse of the elusive Captain. Becca was right; he watches the news, and he’s not an idiot. Steve values his privacy, the things he’s claimed as his own - his identity has to be a large part of that. 

It’s something Bucky can relate to, he thinks as he watches Steve right himself, then looks down to brush some stray flour off of his long red skirt. Sure, being a person who looks like a beefcake but wears skirts and makeup isn’t quite the same as being an internationally revered superhero, but he still feels as if there’s a connection to be made there. 

“C’mon, dummy,” Bucky says, and his voice is unbearably fond, “I made a quiche. Come have lunch.” Steve follows him into the kitchen, still red faced, and it’s like he’d never left.

\--

The routine continues.

They share their days together in Bucky's shop, Steve tucked away at the table in the kitchen as they talk and laugh. Bucky apologizes to Becca in the form of a homemade tiramisu, and he's forgiven, but Bucky works hard to make sure she's not in the shop when Steve is. He hated the look on Steve's face, the panic and the fear, and he's realized that he'd decided the day he met the other man that he would take care of him. 

It's not a promise, even to himself, that he plans on breaking. 

The weather turns quickly, hot days melting away until Bucky finds himself grateful for his sweltering kitchen, even if Steve complains. The man must run hot, and more than once Bucky's set his metal hand against the back of his neck just to laugh when he jerks away from the cold touch in surprise. 

Touching happens more, too. Steve’s a tactile person, Bucky’s learned that already, but he acts like he doesn’t expect to get it in return, or for his own touch to be very welcome. And so Bucky makes a point to brush against him, to gently push at his broad shoulders to nudge him out of the way, to squeeze his hand in a comforting touch when he gets that faraway look in his eye. 

October ends quickly, sneaking up on them both, and Halloween seemingly comes out of nowhere.

Bucky spends it with his family, as always, and the next morning he’s drained and tired. He blinks slowly at the reduction boiling on the stovetop, and nearly jumps out of his skin when a hand appears out of nowhere to turn the burner off.

“Christ!” he bites out, and spins around to see Steve raising his hands placatingly. A worried expression twists his features. 

“I said your name like three times,” he says defensively, “Alpine about shoved me through the kitchen door to get me in here faster, I thought something was wrong.” Sure enough, his familiar is now winding around his ankles, blinking worried eyes up at him. His indignation fades slightly, but his frown stays in place. 

“I’m fine,” he tries to insist, reaching to turn the burner back on, but Steve gently catches his wrist. Bucky sighs exasperatedly. 

“Steve--” 

“Bucky,” he says gently, and it brings Bucky up short. He looks up at the other man, ready to insist that he’s just fine, that he can work, that he didn’t overdo it - but the concerned look on Steve’s face makes him snap his mouth shut again. Blue eyes search his face, and he knows what Steve finds. 

His makeup is haphazard at best, and his crop top is rumpled from where he’d dragged it off the floor. He’d wrestled his way into a pair of jeans and high tops today, determined to put on actual pants and act like a real human adult, but he’s already regretting it, uncomfortable and angry about it.

Not to mention the pain in his left shoulder. He always overdoes it when he’s around his mother. He doesn’t want her to worry, doesn’t want her to think he’s not okay - and that leads to some ridiculous overcompensation. He knows she would never think less of him for the injury, knows she loves him and supports him, but he also knows the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes are his fault. He doesn’t want to do anything to make her fret. But that means he’s left aching and sore and exhausted, and maybe, just maybe, the concern showing in Steve’s gaze isn’t unwarranted.

Bucky finds himself wanting to give in to it, to sigh and slump his aching muscles down, and Steve cracks a small smile at him. "You don't have to power through it, you know," he says, and his voice is gentle, but it's not coddling. Bucky appreciates that, at least, and he fixes Steve with a look, but it lacks heat. "I can work," he insists, and Steve hums in agreement. 

"You can," he says, "but you don't have to. "You ever heard of a day off, Barnes?" Bucky scoffs. 

"If you could see how many times a week this place opens late or closes early, you'd be singing a different tune," he sasses, but he can already feel his stubbornness fading. 

It's been a slow day, anyway. He hasn't seen another person other than Steve in at least an hour - it's why he's standing here in the back, spacing out in the face of a cranberry reduction rather than forcing a smile and charming the customers. The season leading up to Halloween is always hectic, but until he switches the decorations and the menu for the solstice, it'll be a nice lull other than regulars and tourists. He could afford to close early, rest up and come back fresh tomorrow. But that could mean not seeing Steve. He bites his lip.

“...Fine," he finally admits, and Steve grins at him. "But - you gotta let me do whatever you were here for," he tells Steve, pointing at him, and Steve blushes, shrugging. 

"I just came to see you,” he admits, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. Bucky can't help but smile. 

"And you want me to go upstairs and nap when you came all the way out here?” he asks, clicking his tongue disapprovingly. Steve rolls his eyes at him.

“Bucky,” he says, just as Alpine stretches her little legs up the length of his calf, like she’s trying to push him over. “Listen to your cat. Look at her.” His face goes deadpan. “She’s going white haired with stress.” Bucky stares at him blankly, then snorts an unattractive laugh.

“I hate you,” he says fondly, and Steve grins crookedly at him. 

“I know,” he says back, and gives Bucky’s arm a featherlight punch. “Lemme clean up down here, I’ll lock up. Mind if I hang out down here?” he asks, nodding to where he’d set his sketchbook on his table. Bucky hadn’t even noticed it. 

“Course I don’t mind,” he says. “But I can clean up--”

“Bucky,” Steve says, exasperated, “let me take care a’  _ you  _ this time, yeah?” Bucky blinks in surprise, but a small, pleased grin curls the corners of his mouth.

“...Yeah, okay,” he says softly, looking down, and he lets Steve shoo him up the stairs. It’s not until he lands on his couch that he realizes he should have invited Steve to join him upstairs instead of leaving him in the shop, but before the thought fully forms, he’s asleep.

As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, when he’s woken an hour and a half later by Alpine purring and kneading his chest, he feels better. He smiles at her, then gently nudges her aside to stand. 

He cleans up a little, brushes his hair and brushes the taste of napping out of his mouth, and then makes his way downstairs to find Steve. He half wonders if he’s left already, and he would understand if he has, but he hopes it isn’t the case. But sure enough when he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he’s still hunched over at the little table, pencil moving steadily across his page.

Bucky tries to take the opportunity to sneak up on him this time, but the second he moves in his direction, Steve’s head picks up with a smile.    
“Hey, you,” Steve says, and Bucky flushes. “Feelin’ better?” 

“Much,” Bucky confirms, and he glances towards the stove. The pan is gone, clean and hanging on the rack right where it goes, and so are all the other dishes that were in the sink. Bucky sighs. “You really didn’t have to clean up,” he tells Steve, looking back towards him, and Steve rises.

“I wanted to,” he says with a shrug, walking a little closer. 

“Well, thanks,” Bucky says, but the rest of the words die in his throat as Steve comes to a stop less than a foot away. He looks like he’s bracing himself for something, and Bucky can’t for the life of him figure out what. He frowns a little. 

“You okay, big guy?” he asks gently, and Steve huffs a nervous little laugh.

“Yeah - yeah, Buck. I’m fine. I just - well. I came over cause...I wanted to talk to you about something.” Anxiety curls in Bucky’s chest.

The last thing he expected from Steve was a _we need to talk_ conversation, but he takes a deep breath and sets his shoulders before he nods. A light in Steve’s eyes changes, and suddenly the air between them becomes charged, and Bucky knows exactly what Steve wants to tell him.

This is it, Bucky thinks. He keeps his breathing steady, tries to not let his nerves show on his face. Steve is nervous enough for the both of them, his strong brow furrowed tight, his jaw clenching as he swallows hard. Bucky is sure that if he were to look, Steve’s hands would be shaking, but he can’t look away from Steve’s eyes. They’re so blue, dark and deep, and Bucky would be lost in them if he wasn't so focused, his heart in his throat.

He wants to tell Steve to just spit it out. But part of him has been so nervous to say he knows because he's so afraid of what it might mean, if Steve won't want to stay once the illusion is shattered. It's not a fair thought; Steve is better than that, isn't that kind of man. He stays quiet, lets Steve gather his own courage.

They’re close enough to touch, and Steve comes even closer, just a breath away. Bucky gives a shaky exhale, and Steve’s eyes flick down to his lips.

“Buck,” Steve says softly, and his hand lands at the dip of his hip, thumbing over the black band of his jeans. 

“Steve,” he replies, barely sighs it out, and he gets to watch as Steve’s eyes flutter softly, head bowing. Their foreheads touch, Steve's brow tight against his own.

“I’m Captain America.”

“I know.”

Steve kisses him.

It feels like explosions. Steve’s lips are soft and warm, but they’re commanding, invading space that Bucky is only too happy to give. He fists his hands into Steve’s shirt and yanks him even closer, gasping against his mouth, and Steve takes advantage, his tongue sliding past Bucky’s parted lips. He tastes like honeyed tea, like warmth, like home.

Bucky moans into the kiss, and he might have been embarrassed about it, if he hadn’t heard the low, rumbling groan Steve gave in response. 

Large hands grab him tight, and then he’s being lifted, pulling a surprised sound from him before his ass finds the kitchen counter and Steve’s pushing between his legs. Bucky can’t help but laugh breathlessly, hands flying up to tangle into Steve’s hair.

They kiss until their lips are numb and buzzing, until Bucky’s gasping into the kiss, chest heaving, and finally he pulls back, kissing Steve’s cheek, his jaw, scraping his teeth gently against the meeting of his neck and shoulder. One of Steve’s hands tangles in his hair and pulls, and Bucky gasps, letting his head fall back, Steve taking control of the movement with his unerring touch, and then it’s his turn to have a mouth on his skin. He shivers, thighs squeezing at Steve’s hips, pulling him in until their bodies are as close as they can get. 

“Wanted to do this so long,” Steve breathes against the skin of Bucky’s throat, voice a deep, rough rumble, and Bucky moans.

“Then don’t stop,” he tells him, and Steve doesn’t. He sinks his teeth into the tender flesh beneath his mouth, marking Bucky, delighting in the sound it pulls from him. His hands fall to the waistband of his jeans, fumbling with the fly.

“The one day you don’t wear a skirt,” he grumbles, feeling the breathless laugh Bucky gives, the sound popping happily against Steve’s cheek. 

“Well if I’d known you were plannin’ to get under it, I woulda thrown one on today,” he murmurs, making Steve groan low in his throat and drag him in closer. “C’mon, baby,” Bucky whispers, “I can buy new jeans.” Steve jerks, ripping the fly open and busting the zipper.

“C’mere,” Steve nearly growls, and he picks Bucky up, making him gasp as he wraps his legs around Steve’s waist. Bucky isn’t a small man; he can’t remember the last time someone picked him up like this. It makes him moan, and as Steve carries him up the stairs and to the apartment, he hopes he never forgets what it’s like again.

Something about the grip Steve has on him makes him think he won’t have to, but when his back hits the mattress with Steve hovering above him, he stops thinking about much at all.

\--

Steve drags his fingertips up and down the line of Bucky’s spine, ducking his head to tuck his nose into the wild locks of hair that are just beneath his own chin. Bucky’s sprawled across his chest, the sheets slung low, barely covering his hips and leaving the wide expanse of his back on display. 

Steve wants to count the freckles on him and kiss each one, but he’s sure Bucky would complain at him about it, and so he settles for this, mapping out imaginary patterns in his skin with a soft touch. He could stay like this forever, he thinks. 

And so of course that’s when Steve’s phone begins to vibrate. It buzzes against the hardwood floor where his jeans had landed, and Bucky stirs.

“Mmph,” he grumbles, and he clings to Steve a little tighter. “Ignore it,” he wheedles, and Steve’s heart squeezes fondly in his chest. He ducks his head to kiss Bucky’s hairline.

“I would,” he whispers, regret in his voice, “but that’s my work phone.” Bucky goes still. Steve stays patient, hoping that whatever the message is, it isn’t life or death, and watches as Bucky pushes himself up, hovering above Steve. 

“So you gotta leave?” he asks, and he fixes Steve with the saddest look he’s ever seen. It about breaks his heart, and he reaches up, gently tucking Bucky’s hair behind his ear. He twines the grey streak around his finger.

“I gotta leave,” he murmurs back. “I’m sorry, sweetness.” Bucky flushes at the pet name, but reluctance colors every line of his body as he rolls off of Steve and allows him to stand from the bed. 

“You didn’t give me your number last time,” Bucky says as Steve is pulling on his clothes, and Steve looks over at him. He’s sitting up against the headboard, hair contained by the hair tie he’d kept on his wrist, but the sheets are still twisted messily around him, barely covering his lap and leaving one leg exposed. There’s a tattoo on his foot. Steve makes a note to investigate it closer when he gets back. “I couldn’t call you. Couldn’t even send you a text.” There’s a tight furrow of worry pulling Bucky’s brows together, and Steve pulls his shirt over his head as he walks back to him.

“How stupid of me,” he murmurs, snatching Bucky’s phone from the bedside table. He hits the right icon and punches in his own number, then calls it, lifting the phone to his ear to make sure it rings a few times. He keeps his eyes on Bucky, watches the way his smile steals over his face, and reaches out to gently cup his cheek. Bucky turns his face into the touch, kissing his palm sweetly. Once he hears his own voicemail pick up, Steve pulls the phone away and ends the call. “There,” he says, thumb tracing Bucky’s lower lip, “now you’ve got it.” 

“Thanks,” Bucky says beneath his thumb, and Steve hums, leaning in to kiss him. God, but he doesn’t want to leave. He wants to strip back down and crawl right back into Bucky’s bed, pull the warmth of Bucky atop him again, have his messy hair tickling his face. Bucky’s hand comes up and curls tight in Steve’s shirt, tugging him closer, and the kiss deepens.

“Y’know,” Bucky breathes into the kiss, finally breaking it to rest his forehead against Steve’s, “usually a guy runnin’ out on me right after I take him to bed for the first time isn’t a good sign.” Steve hums, sliding his hand to the back of Bucky’s neck. “You’re gonna be back?” Steve opens his eyes, pulling away just enough to meet Bucky’s gaze.

“I’m gonna be back,” he swears, voice low. He smiles. “Can’t get rid a’ me that easy, Barnes,” he teases, and Bucky smiles back at him. 

“When?” he asks, and Steve sighs, finally pulling his phone from his pocket to frown down at the message. It’s Natasha.

_ Wheels up in 90.  _

“Dunno yet,” he says regretfully, and he hates the worried little pinch that forms at the corner of Bucky’s mouth. But Bucky just sighs and pulls away, just enough to get space to slip from the sheets. He's naked, and Steve has to make a concentrated effort to not stare, before he remembers he has blanket permission to stare at that ass as much as he damn well pleases. And so he does, right up until Bucky finds his briefs and pulls them on, snagging his jeans next.

"Buck?" Steve asks, but Bucky just hums and waves a hand at him. 

"You got, like, five minutes to spare?" Bucky asks, padding out of the bedroom. Steve follows. 

"Yeah," he says cautiously, "why?" Bucky doesn't answer, just continues through the apartment, and Alpine falls into step next to him. 

Bucky comes to a stop in a far corner in front of a small wooden table, laden heavily with what look like supplies. What kind of supplies, Steve doesn't know, but he sees greenery and mismatched bottles and a multitude of candles. 

"Gonna make something for you to take with you," Bucky says, grinning crookedly over his shoulder at Steve as he reaches for a drawer in the table and pulls out a small blue suede bag. It's tiny, not even the size of Bucky's palm, and Steve watches as Bucky shakes it open and grabs a small jar of herbs. Alpine leaps up onto the table gracefully, rubbing her face against the bag with a happy purr, and Bucky chuckles. 

Steve can’t quite see what Bucky’s doing, but he can see when purple begins to glow from Bucky’s hands. He keeps his distance, not wanting to intrude, and just a few moments later Bucky turns to face him, the small bag in his palm. 

“Think you can find some room in your superhero fanny pack for this?” Bucky asks with a crooked grin, and Steve sputters.

“It is not - it’s a utility belt!” he says, but the dig is worth it to hear Bucky’s low, warm laugh. 

“Sure it is, sweetheart,” he says, and Steve can feel the dopey smile taking over his face at the pet name. “Here,” Bucky continues, stepping into Steve’s space, and Steve’s hand immediately lands on Bucky’s hip. His other raises, taking the little bag as Bucky hands it to him, and warmth tingles up his arm. He pauses.

“...You’ve done this before. Last time,” he says, and Bucky’s cheeks go pink beneath his stubble. His eyes slide away, not meeting Steve’s. “I recognize this - the feeling.” 

“...I did it almost every night you were gone,” Bucky admits, and Steve’s breath hitches. Suddenly that feeling of safety, the fact that he walked away with barely a scratch - it makes sense. Of course it was Bucky. 

“You knew then?” he asks, though he’d already suspected it. Bucky nods wordlessly. “And you didn’t say anything?” Bucky looks back at him like he’s afraid Steve might be angry, but it’s the opposite. 

He didn’t know he could feel any more grateful towards Bucky Barnes, but here he is. He slides his hand to the back of Bucky’s neck and hauls him in close, kissing him hard. Bucky squeaks into it, but the sound becomes a soft laugh, and he all but melts against Steve’s chest, strong body liquid-soft as he presses close. 

They lose time like that, trading kisses that gradually become lazier and softer, until finally Steve pulls away with a reluctant sigh. 

“I gotta go,” he says softly, and Bucky hums, reaching up to take a gentle hold of Steve’s chin. He meets his eyes, and gives Steve’s head a gentle shake.

“You come back to me,” he says seriously, and Steve’s heart skips. 

“Always,” he promises, just as solemn. Bucky stares at his face for a few more seconds, before he finally gives a nod and releases him.

“Keep that on you,” he says, pointing at the bag that Steve had half-forgotten about. He slips it into his pocket.

“Sir yes sir.” He snaps off a salute and a cheeky wink when Bucky groans. “I’ll call when I can. Bye, Buck.”

“Bye, baby,” Bucky says, and his sweet, sad smile follows Steve all the way out the door and back to SHIELD. 

\--

“Rogers, you dog,” Natasha says delightedly when he rolls up to the jet with five minutes to spare. She’s standing on the tarmac with her arms crossed over her chest, grinning. The rest of the team must already be on the jet, and he groans, rolling his eyes and moving to sidestep her to join them.

“Can it, Romanoff,” he says, and she laughs, falling into step beside him.

“Tell me I’m wrong and a pretty kitchen witch isn’t the reason you’re the last one here,” she presses.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” he says instead, and she huffs, her small hand catching around his bicep. He lets her tug him to a stop, turning to meet her eyes, feeling his cheeks flush pink.

“I’m here,” he repeats, and her smile turns fond.

“You are,” she allows. “You’ll tell me details later, but for now…?” she trails off, raising a brow, and he can’t help but smile. 

“We’re...together,” he finally lands on, and she all but beams at him, lifting a hand to clap his shoulder.

“Good. I’m happy for you,” she says, and he knows she’s sincere. Then she pulls on his arm. “Now c’mon, we’ve got mutant lizards in Japan.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

\--

“You were right.”

“As always, but what about this time?”

Bucky pinches his nose, barely suppressing a groan into the phone. Becca really does have to be a nightmare sibling at all times, it seems, but he grits his teeth and bears it. 

“... _ Stevescapnmerica,”  _ he mumbles in one go, and Becca hums absently.

“Speak up, Bucky,” she says, and he can tell she’s got the phone pinned between her ear and her shoulder, her hands probably buried in a pot of dirt. “Fuckin’ aphids,” she grumbles under her breath. He huffs a dramatic sigh.

“Steve’s Captain America,” he repeats reluctantly, and Becca outright laughs at him.

“Bucky, you already apologized for this. You made me cake,” she reminds him.

“I did, and you better appreciate it, cause you know I hate that fucking recipe,” he snaps back. She only laughs harder, but reins it in after a few moments.

“I appreciate it very much,” she teases. “Why’re you really calling?” He can always count on her to cut through his dramatics, and he deflates a little.

“...He’s gone for work,” he says quietly, and he can feel her sober up on the other end of the line.

“Where?” Her voice is kinder now. Bucky slouches in the armchair, throwing an arm over his face. 

“Japan,” he mumbles.

“With the lizards?”

“With the lizards.”

“And what’re you doing?” 

“Waiting.”

“For?”

“Him.” 

She sighs. “Give me an hour.” He perks back up slightly. “I’ll bring Ben and Jerry’s.”

“Best sister ever.”

“Don’t I know it.”

\--

In the end, not much seems to change. Steve is still Steve. Bucky is still Bucky. They slide into each other's lives like they've always belonged there, like fate had designs to slip them into each other's futures from the very beginning. 

Steve works, Bucky bakes, and they love each other before, during, and after. Bucky's apartment is small, but not so small that Steve can't slip in like he's always been there with him. He doesn't move in, not officially, but he's there more often than not, when he's stateside and not being shipped off to fight aliens and terrorists. The little shop in this little corner of Brooklyn becomes home - but maybe it’s always been, really.

\--

"You can ask, y'know," Bucky says quietly when Steve's fingers once again brush against the scar tissue at his shoulder. They’re in bed, just laying together, Bucky snuggled into Steve’s side and his left arm tossed over his trim waist. It stretches the muscles of his back into beautiful lines and shadows, and also lets the light catch the twisted and gnarled scars spreading away from the metal.

Steve has never shied away from the injury. He kisses his shoulder and touches his arm and holds his hand just as much on his left side as his right. If Bucky never wanted to talk about it, Steve would never ask, but he can’t deny he’s been curious about it.

"I don't wanna push," he says regardless, voice low and soft, but cautious. Bucky lifts his head, smiling at him. 

"I don't mind," he tells him. Steve meets his eyes, hesitant, but speaks up a few moments later.

"What happened?" He whispers. His warm fingers find the seam of metal and flesh, and Bucky closes his eyes. He takes a few moments to answer, and Steve worries that maybe he pushed too far. He knows it can’t be a pretty story, the circumstances that led to Bucky losing an entire limb, and even though Bucky was the one to bring it up, Steve worries he shouldn’t have pursued the conversation. But soon, Bucky speaks up. 

"I was young and dumb," he murmurs softly, "and arrogant. I got mixed up with the wrong kinda people. Magic users who thought their gifts made them better than others, who thought humans were below them and other supernaturals even lower. I didn't realize how deep it went - I thought we were all just working together to build our magic. I was naive.”

Bitterness colors Bucky’s voice. Steve’s never heard him sound like this before. He keeps his touch steady and light, resisting the urge to drag Bucky under him and cover him with his body and the blankets and whisper that he’s safe right in his ear. Instead he stays still, and lets Bucky speak.

“By the time I realized that they went beyond just wanting to be better and thought they  _ were _ better, it was too late. I tried to distance myself, but. They found my address, started showing up at my house, and then at Becca's when I stayed with her. There was no getting away. They wouldn't let me go. And then they started cursing me. I'd wake up somewhere and not know how I got there, but I'd be with them. They’d...make me do things.” He drops his head back down to Steve’s chest, and Steve’s other hand slides into Bucky’s hair to gently massage the back of his neck. Anger flares hot and bright in Steve, but he just ducks his chin, pressing his face to the top of Bucky’s head and breathing in his shampoo.

He thinks of that day in the kitchen, the way Bucky had been so earnest, his face heartbreakingly open, telling him that he’d never take away someone’s choice. He doesn’t know what he was forced to do, and he’s not going to ask. He continues to touch him, gentle and soft.

“I used to be strong," Bucky tells Steve, finally opening his eyes and cracking a wry smile. "The things I could do… you wouldn't believe it. And I bragged about it, got attention for it. Just ended up with the kind of attention I never asked for.” Steve shakes his head, his jaw tight, but Bucky continues before he can interject. 

“The last time I saw them, I told them I was done. Tried to run. They caught me.” His eyes go far away. “They tried to kill me.” Steve’s breath catches. Bucky says it so casually, like he’s detached from it, but his gaze still hasn’t sharpened into awareness. “They didn’t succeed, but…” He shrugs his left shoulder pointedly. “When I woke up, I was in the hospital. My arm was gone. I dunno how I got there.”   
“Baby,” Steve says, and his voice cracks. Bucky blinks, then finally, thankfully, focuses again, meeting Steve’s eyes. He smiles sadly.

“I got lucky,” he says, “there’s a witch named Shuri - she’s incredible. She crafted the arm, spelled and charmed it. It pulls from my own magic, and there’s spells in it to make me not feel the pain of it as bad. Some days are better than others, but. Yeah. That’s what happened.” Steve stays silent, meeting Bucky’s eyes, before he finally feels that he’s in control enough to speak.

“You have always been strong,” he tells Bucky fiercely, sliding the hand from his neck to hold the other’s face, framing it in his palm. “You are strong, and you are amazing, and...God, Bucky.” Bucky’s eyes are wide, his lips parting slightly, and Steve can’t help it - he has to lean in and press his mouth to his own. 

“I love you,” he whispers, and Bucky’s breath catches wetly. “I love you and I will never, ever let someone hurt you like that again.” He means it with every ounce of him. He’ll put himself between the whole world and Bucky if it means keeping him safe.

“I love you too,” Bucky whispers to him, and it feels like sunlight blooms in Steve’s chest. He smiles, and holds Bucky close.

\--

What is the point of being a witch, Bucky thinks to himself as he carefully applies the grey liquid lipstick, if you can’t embrace the aesthetic every now and then? He gently presses his lips together, making sure the coverage is full, and reaches up to fiddle with a snake bite stud. The piercing is perfectly in place, but that doesn’t mean his restless hands aren’t searching for something to touch, to mess with, and if he touches his hair again he’ll officially cross the fine line between carefully contained waves and feral forest monster. 

Still, he cautiously tucks the grey streak behind his ear, grateful that for once, his hair is free of flour or sugar or melted butter. It’s soft, falling over his shoulders in thick waves, and he leaves a tendril untucked, gently curling it around his finger to make sure it lays right before forcing himself to turn away from the mirror and head to his room to dress. 

His outfit doesn’t take as long as his makeup did; a black button up tucked into a pair of black pants is easy to put together. He takes his time with his jewelry, picking out the right studded earrings for his cartilage piercings, trying on three pairs of hoops before deciding to go with the hanging teardrop-shaped ones, black stones shining brightly when they catch the light. He can’t decide when it comes to necklaces, torn between a choker or a pentagram or an anatomically correct heart, and so he decides to wear all three, even putting a silver collar chain on his shirt for good measure.

It’s nice. Well put together, but still missing something. His eyes land on his coat rack in the corner, and the answer seems obvious. By the time he’s sweeping out the bedroom door, his cloak and hat have come together to seal the deal. 

It can be hard to sell  _ don’t fuck with me _ when you smell like baked goods, but Steve, bless his soul, assures Bucky that he gets it right every time. He greets him now with a grin, letting Steve gently flick the brim of his hat with a wink before leaning up to press a kiss to his mouth. He takes Steve’s jaw in a gentle hold, rings glinting in the low light of the apartment. Steve gives him a slow blink and a slower smile.

“I’m ready,” he says unnecessarily, and gets a snort from Becca in the doorway.

“Coco Chanel said before you leave the house, look in the mirror and take one thing off,” she says pointedly, arching a brow and eyeing the multitude of jewelry adorning Bucky.

“Coco Chanel was a nazi, Becks. I’m not listening to shit she says.” He scoops up another ring from the coffee table for good measure.  Steve’s happy laugh booms after him, and a warm hand lands at the dip of his lower back, large and steadying and sneaking beneath the cloak to touch the thin fabric of his button down underneath. Becca just rolls her eyes at the both of them, and Steve checks his phone.    
“Nat and Sam are at the bar,” he says in a tone that says he’s very carefully not calling them late, and Bucky huffs. 

“Then why do you not have your shoes on yet?”

“You took an hour and a half--”

“Which means you had an hour and a half to put your shoes on--”

“Oh my god,” Becca mutters, turning and leaving the apartment. “I’ll be downstairs, when you guys work this out, come join me.” She closes the door pointedly behind her, and Steve and Bucky both snicker. 

The apartment is a little warm for Bucky’s outfit, but he finds he doesn’t mind when Steve’s gaze drags hotly over him. He flushes, smiling crookedly. 

“I look okay?” he asks softly. Steve’s hands find their home at his hips as usual and give him a little tug. 

“You know you do,” he murmurs, nodding. Bucky might preen a little. 

“We gotta go,” he says, and Steve hums, leaning in to kiss him sweetly, once, twice, three times. 

“Do we gotta?” he murmurs in a cajoling tone of voice, his hands sliding down until he can tuck his fingertips into Bucky’s back pockets.

“I’m not having the Black Widow know I’m late to drinks with her because her coworker wanted to bang me first,” Bucky says, and Steve snorts a laugh, the moment mostly broken.

“Fine, if you insist,” he sighs, pulling away and shoving his feet in a pair of boots. He doesn’t grab a jacket, instead just draping his arm around Bucky’s shoulders, leading the way to the door.

In the kitchen, Alpine loops around a familiar canister of dry tea leaves. Dust tops the lid; it hasn’t been touched in months. A recipe for a sweet, cinnamon bread stays stored in a recipe book tucked on a shelf, and she watches with keen eyes as Bucky and Steve pass her. 

_ “Mrrp!” _ she says, and Steve laughs, scratching her beneath the chin and kissing her on the top of her head. Bucky watches with a happy smile, then winks at Alpine. 

“Be a good girl,” he says, gently tapping her little pink nose. “Daddies will be home soon.” 

Steve squeezes his hand extra tight, and together, they leave, locking the door behind them. 

As they walk past the store front hand in hand, Bucky casts a look up at Steve, watching his profile in stark relief against the night sky.

Magic hums off of Steve’s skin, and Bucky revels in it, more than used to the sensation. Becca chatters happily away as they all walk, Steve and her playfully joking back and forth, and when they reach the bar, it’s to happy exclamations from Natasha and Sam and hugs exchanged all around. 

\--

When they return home hours later, Steve helps Bucky, giggly and tipsy, strip out of his outfit. His hat and cloak are hung carefully, but his jeans land in a heap and his shirt misses the laundry basket. 

“Makeup,” Bucky mumbles, and Steve laughs softly. 

“Bathroom, then,” he tells him, and Bucky follows Steve's gentle guidance, letting him lift him to sit on the bathroom counter as Steve gets a makeup wipe.

He gazes at Steve a little dopily as he takes his makeup off for him, and Steve’s brow furrows in a fond look. 

“What?” he asks, tossing the wipe into the trash. 

“I just love you,” Bucky says honestly, and he gets to watch that happy expression bloom over Steve’s face, just like every other time he tells him how he feels. He earns a kiss for his trouble, slow and deep. 

“I just love you too,” he says softly. Bucky’s heart skips in his chest. Steve’s hands find his body again, lifting him like he weighs nothing. 

“Bed,” he tells Bucky, and Bucky is never going to say no to that. 

“Happily,” he replies, scrunching his nose with a smile, only to laugh loudly as he’s thrown to the mattress. 

Steve’s bulk settles above him, pressing his wide grin to Bucky’s. 

When sleep takes the both of them not long after, breathing heavy, skin on skin and entangled together, it’s with the surety that they’re both right where they belong, wrapped in the arms of the one that loves them. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you once again to [Ella](https://twitter.com/softstevie) and [Jay,](https://twitter.com/luckycl0ve) without whom this fic would not exist. 
> 
> Happy Halloween!!! Comments and kudos are always appreciated! Come find me on [twitter](HTTP://twitter.com/emj1s) and [tumblr!](HTTP://emj1s.tumblr.com)


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